


spilt truth and smudged lies (at least until the inkwell runs dry)

by SmilinStar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, F/M, Michelle Jones the writer (and activist), Peter Parker the photographer (and writer), Slow Burn, Workplace, also still a Spider-Man story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: “I have no idea,” he says, before lowering his voice because he’s still not convinced she’s not listening in on their conversations. The fear is well founded, alright? He swears she looks at him sometimes – with that quirked eyebrow, and penetrating gaze – as if she knows his every secret. And he has secrets. One big, red and blue, spandex covered, web-slinging, secret thatno one can find out about. “Who knows anything about Jones?”And it’s a legitimate question.He knows next to nothing about their colleague.Apart from the fact she’s damn good at her job, is incapable of uttering a sentence that isn’t dripping in sarcasm, is a little (a whole lot) intimidating, he knows nothing about Michelle Jones.Not for lack of trying though.AKA:the Spideychelle Journalist AU I couldn't stop myself from writing . . .





	1. September 2027; Issue No. 101

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we go with another multi-chap! I'm excited about this one. I hope you'll enjoy it, and if you do, please let me know :-)

 

 

                                                

 

 

There’s nothing worse than a blinking cursor on a blank word document.

And MJ’s been staring at it for the last hour at least.

_Fucking writer’s block._

Although, it’s worth noting, she never really stood a chance. Not when she’s been handed this week’s puff piece.

She has zero interest in the new fad diet that’s sweeping the upper echelons of the rich and famous (read: gullible, desperate, image obsessed) socialites of the Upper East Side. Just typing it into the google search bar and looking at the images of the luminescent shakes is bringing her out in hives and turning her stomach.

She’s this close to dry heaving into the waste paper basket by her desk.

Apparently, it’s a slow news week.

Doesn’t help either that Nerd and Nerdier sitting on the other side of the office are currently lobbing jelly beans at each other and trying to catch them in their wide-open traps and making a ruckus with their laughter and jabbering.

You know those guys? Those guys that never really grow out of high school, and seem perpetually sixteen, with the mindset, the fashion sense, and the social awkwardness to go along with it? Yeah, Ned Leeds and Peter Parker have nothing on them.

Hell, she knows she’s one to talk. She’s not exactly Miss Social Butterfly either, but come on, _jelly beans?_

Rubbing at her temples in frustration, and blowing away the loose curls hindering her vision, MJ peels off a bright pink post-it from her impressive stack and scrunches it into a ball. She sifts under the piles of papers and folders on her desk – _yes, it’s a mess, everything in her life is, so what?_ – until her fingertips find what she’s looking for, and bingo! A mangy looking brown rubber band that’s seen better days.

It’ll do.

She fashions a catapult with practiced ease and launches her paper missile in the direction of _NY Pulse’s_ resident science and tech staff writer and his photographer slash current affairs writer best friend. Her angling skewers slightly right this time and hits the former smack bang on the side of his head.

“Hey!” Leeds exclaims, swivelling on his desk chair to look across the room at her. “What was that for?”

And he asks it in that beleaguered manner which says this isn’t the first time she’s done this.

And just like all those times before, MJ gives him a non-answer.

“Everything.”

“What?” he mouths, confused.

She says nothing more, spins instead in her own seat, leans back, and lifts her feet up onto her desk. Well, on top of the old print issues of the _Daily Bugle_ she’d been asked to unarchive for its upcoming 50 th anniversary. Because, of course, they’re gonna have to blow smoke up the ass of the granddaddy of their publishing house. _Joy._

Not for the hundredth time MJ wonders why she’s still here. Doing this job.

For one thing: she needs the money, of course.

And the other? She’s not sure, but there’s a comfort in walking through the revolving glass doors of the Goodman Building, with its ornate brass railings and the deep mahogany wood panelling, every morning at 7.30am. Seeing Bill sitting behind the security desk, permanently with his hat slightly askew, a mega-watt smile on his face without fail as he says, “good morning Miss Jones” in that deep Brooklyn accent of his, always puts one on her own. He’s pushing sixty, she’s sure, and knows he can’t run for shit anymore with his angina, but he’s an institution, and the powers that be know they’d have a lawsuit on their hands if they ever tried to get rid of him. There’s also something about the daily trek up to the twenty third floor, and the ping of the elevator doors opening on the trés modern steel lettering of _NY Pulse_ against the red, blue and grey acrylic panelling that makes her think she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Peter Parker’s bright smile when he stumbles into the office half an hour late every day has nothing to do with it. _At all._

She never smiles back.

Aggravatingly, that doesn’t deter him in the least.

He’s the newbie.

Has been for the last six months and will be until a new fresh-faced wannabe editor-in-chief-in-the-making comes stumbling through the doors, only to learn it’s a pipe dream that’s never gonna happen, because Jameson, the stubborn bastard, will find a way to outlive them all. Of that, MJ has no doubt.

The point is – he’s still bright eyed and bushy-tailed and eager to make friends.

Not that he had to try very hard.

Apparently, he and Leeds go way back to high school – which explains a hell of a lot – and even if you discount him, Harrington worships the ground he walks on. Because, somehow, the nerd managed to get an exclusive with one Spider-Man – high res photos and everything – as his first. freakin’. piece.

MJ’s still none the wiser how he managed that, especially when sightings of New York’s resident friendly neighbourhood superhero have been in short supply in recent months. She’s never been on the Spider-Man train, actually couldn’t care less about the whole superhero thing altogether, and certainly wouldn’t want to waste an article on them, but staring once again at her computer screen, and the ‘blank white page of doom’ she thinks maybe he’d been onto something. She’d definitely rather wax poetic about the dozens of New York city cats Spider-Man’s saved than these shitty shakes.

But that’s not gonna happen. So.

She blows out a breath, drops her feet back to the ground, straightens her back and sucks it up and starts typing like the amazing writer she is –

INSERT COOL ASS TITLE HERE

(Shut up

 _It’s a work in progress._ )

)(

 

“Man, what is with her?” Ned grouses, bending down to swipe Jones’ paper projectile off the floor.

Peter shrugs, eyes flickering across the office floor to said assailant currently glaring at her computer screen like she wants to set it on fire.

“I have no idea,” he says, before lowering his voice because he’s still not convinced she’s not listening in on their conversations. The fear is well founded, alright? He swears she looks at him sometimes – with that quirked eyebrow, and penetrating gaze – as if she knows his every secret. And he has secrets. One big, red and blue, spandex covered, web-slinging, secret that _no one can find out about._ “Who knows anything about Jones?”

And it’s a legitimate question.

He knows next to nothing about their colleague.

Apart from the fact she’s damn good at her job, is incapable of uttering a sentence that isn’t dripping in sarcasm, is a little (a whole lot) intimidating, he knows nothing about Michelle Jones.

Not for lack of trying though.

“True,” Ned agrees, before digging his hand into the bag of jelly beans and grabbing a handful.

“Hey!” Peter squawks, reaching across his desk and sneaking his hand behind the flat screen monitor to snatch the bag from his grasp. “You’re gonna finish them all!”

“Not my fault all yours hit the floor. You have awful coordination, dude.”

He swallows down the indignant rebuttal on his lips, because that could not be further from the truth. But as much as he’d like to tell his best friend his secret, he knows for a fact he won’t be able to handle it. Ned Leeds can’t keep a secret to save his life – and in this profession? Telling him will only end in him being plastered across the homepage of their online magazine, their monthly print edition, as well as earning him a front page on the _Daily Bugle._ He’d get the by-line too, because J. Jonah Jameson is that kind of asshole.

So, yeah. Not a good idea.

“Like yours is any better,” he says.

“Touché.”

Any further banter is halted by the emergence of one harried looking Mr Harrington – Managing Editor of the _NY Pulse_ – sticking his head out the door of his office, and loudly clearing his throat.

“Everyone, conference room, now.”

Peter looks across at Ned opposite him. He shrugs in the manner of _‘don’t look at me, dude. I’m as clueless as you.’_

He presses his hands into the edge of his desk and pushes back. The wheels of his chair roll effortlessly back on the polished wood flooring as he stands up. Grabbing one of his many notebooks off his desk he heads for the conference room which is on the same bit of corridor where the kitchen and breakroom, housing the all-important coffee machine, are. It’s a large space, with glass panelling along the one side, and ceiling to floor windows overlooking Manhattan on the other. In the centre is a large rectangular table headed by a screen fixed to the wall.

The rest of the _NY Pulse_ staff writing team and admin have taken their seats. Peter, being the last to enter, takes his usual seat beside Ned. Jones sits on the opposite side, scribbling away in her notebook as always. He can never see what it is she’s doing, but he wonders at it, because the meeting hasn’t even started yet.

She must sense his gaze on her, because she looks up then, arches a brow and pins him to the spot until he looks away.

He really doesn’t know how she does it.

Making him feel so off-kilter, all the time.

It probably has something to do with the fact she hates him – okay maybe more dislikes him and at best tolerates him – and he has absolutely no idea why. He can’t think of a single thing he’s done to potentially piss her off. He’s spent a lot of time going back over their interactions and nothing has ever stood out.

So, okay, maybe running smack bang into her on his very first day while she was carrying a cup of coffee hadn’t been the best first impression, but she doesn’t seem the type to hold that sort of honest mistake against someone for the rest of their lives.

_Or maybe she is._

He doesn’t get to dwell on it any longer, because the meeting officially starts as Harrington clears his throat, and follows it up with an ominous first sentence:

_“Okay, guys, I have some bad news.”_

That gets everyone’s attention as a hush fills the room.

“We’re coming to the end of this quarter, and our overall readership is down by fifteen percent. We’ve had significantly less online traffic in comparison to this time last year.”

This isn’t new news. It’s been circulating the office for some time now.

Harrington takes a deep breath, pushing his spectacles back against the bridge of his nose, before he spits out the rest.

“Mr Jameson is talking about cuts.”

“What kind of cuts?” It’s Flash who asks – their sports writer, and general, all-round, _dick_ , because every workplace has one of those.

“What other kind of cuts are there, Eugene?” It’s Jones who answers him.

It earns her a scowl. Flash hates his given name, not that _Flash_ is any better. He hasn’t got a clue as to its genesis, but Peter would bet his enhanced, version 3.0 web-shooters on it being some stupid name he picked up in high school and couldn’t bear to part with.

“Yes, they’re uh, thinking of cutting back on one of our departments. Not certain which one, yet.” Harrington answers.

“You know, this is all bullshit, right?”

All heads swivel towards one Michelle Jones, sitting back in her chair, rhythmically hitting her biro against her closed notebook.

Harrington sighs, resignation all over his face, because they’re no strangers to her weekly mid-meeting outbursts. She sure as hell makes Monday mornings interesting, that’s for certain. “And I’m sure you’re going to tell us exactly how, Jones?”

“Readership is down across the board. If you wanna talk losses, maybe the big boss should have a look at his own crown jewel. The _Daily Bugle_ is comparatively doing worse than half the magazines under Jameson, Inc. He’s only targeting us because of all the company’s publications, ours is the only one that’s not buying into his right-wing agenda.”

The words sit there.

It’s the truth, and they all know it.

It’s part of the reason Peter agreed to write for _NY Pulse_ in the first place _._ The promise of writing, no-strings attached, with as little bias as possible, just the honest-truth and what people _want_ to read about. And now it seems like Jameson wants to renege on that promise, which sadly isn’t all that surprising.

Roger Harrington breathes out, deep and heavy.

“That may be true, but Mr Jameson will be here tomorrow to check in with us and see what we’re doing to try and change the tide. No decisions have been made, yet. So, basically, what I’m trying to say is tidy up the place a little, including yourselves – that means no t-shirts and sneakers gentlemen, and no –” he looks at Jones then and changes his mind about whatever he was going to say. “Just best behaviour and carry on the good work. That’s all.”

There’s a shuffle of papers, and squeak of chairs as people get up from their seats, nervous chatter filling the air as everyone moves to leave at the dismissal.

Peter’s slow in his footsteps, leaving him at the back of the bottleneck at the doorway.

It’s only when he finally reaches the door, hand pressing with his palm splayed on the glass to keep it open, that he notices Jones standing there beside him.

And apparently, he can’t help himself.

“You were right.”

She looks at him, and he feels his palms start to sweat as he stammers. “What you said before? You’re totally right.”

Something flickers across her face then and he holds his breath. She simply nods at him, and says, “I know I am.”

And somehow, it feels like progress.

 

)(

 

MJ gets home at a quarter past eight in the evening.

After spending another two hours staring at her computer screen, she’d finally had a breakthrough on her piece. Sure, it was a little sarcastic in tone – okay, more like, she was taking the complete and utter piss out of the bogus dieting craze – _but it was funny_. She can be hilarious when she wants to be, and she figures it’ll be enough for Harrington to sigh in defeat, and wave it away with a _“fine, print it.”_

And since it’s just her tonight – her roommate, Liz, is currently away on a business trip – she treats herself to takeaway Chinese and plops down on her ratty couch. She shrugs out of her leather jacket and leaves it there hanging over the back, kicks her feet on top of the coffee table and crosses her boots at the ankles. The remote has fallen into the crack between the cushioned seats, and she slips her hand in to dig it out. With a flick of the button, she has Netflix up and running – the one monthly expense she refuses to sacrifice – and starts up another episode of _Queer Eye_.

God, she loves this show.

It’s just so hilarious, but sweet and heart-warming at the same time.

Yes, it’s true – under that tough exterior, Michelle Jones is a big pile of mush. Which is why no one ever gets through it in the first place. She makes damn well sure of it. Well, she tries to, in any case.

She’s about halfway through an episode, her Chicken Chow Mein well and truly demolished, when her cell buzzes.

She doesn’t look down as she swipes right and answers the call.

“MJ, babe. Hey.”

_Fuck._

She really should have looked at her phone before answering.

On the list of people she really doesn’t want to talk to, Harry Osborn currently ranks higher than her mother, and that’s saying something.

He chuckles slightly, and it sounds nervous. “I uh, didn’t think you’d answer.”

“I didn’t,” she says reflexively, index finger hovering perilously close to the end call button when Harry’s voice comes through – desperate, frantic.

“Wait! MJ, please! Wait.”

She breathes out heavily and retracts her finger.

Still, she says nothing, but he takes the fact he’s still on the line as permission to continue.

“I miss you.”

She squeezes her eyes shut.

“I’m sorry.”

And she doesn’t think too hard as she asks, “are you?”

“Yes, MJ. God! You’ve got to believe me –”

Except, she doesn’t. She doesn’t believe him.

What’s the damned saying?

_Fool me once, shame on you._

_Fool me twice . . ._

“Bye Harry,” she says, before she hangs up on him. She then stuffs her phone behind one of the cushions and falls back. Kicking her boots off her feet, they fall with a muted thud to the rug on the floor. She pulls the throw draped over the back of the couch onto her legs and doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

Yep, that heart of hers?

It’s a fragile bastard.

 

)(

 

“Oh my god, I think I just spotted a unicorn!”

And like a complete _idiot_ , Peter turns on the spot and asks, _“where?”_

Ned guffaws, sprawling back in his chair, and the joke lands a whole ten seconds later than it should have.

“Ha, very funny. I’m not late _every day._ ”

“You’ve never been on time in the six months you’ve worked here.”

The retort doesn’t fall from Ned’s lips, as evidenced by his gawping expression and spinning his chair to his left, just as Peter turns his head in the same direction.

Jones is staring at her computer, or more like glaring, as she frequently does, acting as if she hadn’t just spoken a word – well, _words_ – to them. He’s too stunned by events that it takes a second longer than it should to notice the fact she’s actually made a little effort today. To be fair, they all take Harrington’s relaxed dress policy a little liberally – falling more on the casual side of the smart-casual scale. And none more-so than Michelle Jones, who always rocks up to work in a t-shirt and jeans and a never-ending rotating schedule of Converses and sneakers in various colours, or a staple pair of boots. She loves those black army boots, which he swears are peeking out from the bottom of her black pants. The blouse isn’t especially special, but with the hair – tidily clipped out of her face, she looks . . . _nice._

He swallows down his surprise. “Ned?” he says then, “did she just talk to us?”

She rolls her eyes, and spins in her chair to face them, stares him straight in the eyes, before turning away and saying: “No. She did not.”

A grin spreads on Peter’s face.

It’s not a bad start to the day.

Sadly, however, it’s all downhill from there.

As promised, J. Jonah Jameson – he of Jameson, Inc. – founder, and former, long-time, editor-in-chief of the _Daily Bugle_ , and now boss to _everyone_ in this building – pays them a visit.

He’s a tall, broad man, with a greying caterpillar for a moustache and dark, beady eyes. He has his several secretaries and possibly two interns scurrying behind him, carrying all manner of things from folders, laptops, to his raincoat and umbrella, and of course, the obligatory cup of coffee.

The office quietens down to a hushed silence – no one dares clack their fingers against their keyboard as they watch him march down in between the desks and disappear into Harrington’s office.

It’s been well over an hour now that he’s been inside.

“Do you think Harrington’s still alive in there?”

Peter glances away from the office door to Ned.

“If he is, I’m not sure for how much longer.”

“I thought he wanted to talk to us? To the team?”

Peter slouches back in his seat. “I think it’s probably just a formality, Ned. He’s probably already made up his mind about our fate.”

Ned’s face falls with that, and look, he normally tries to see the world with rose-tinted glasses, but it’s hard when he sees just what the world’s capable of day-in, day-out, as his alter-ego patrols the city at night.

His retort to try and soften the blow is interrupted then by Harrington’s door opening and their boss poking his head out.

“Parker? Jones? In here.”

He gapes a little, freezing on the spot. It’s only as Jones stands up without even a stutter of hesitation and walks towards their boss’ office as requested, and as Ned whispers loud and clear, “dude! Go!”, that he finally moves.

He takes a gulp of air, and breathes out, before he enters Harrington’s office.

It’s a decent sized room, with floor to ceiling windows at the back; the other walls are lined with mahogany furniture including shelves filled to the brim with files and books that are double stacked in places.

There are a few personal details, too. Odd trinkets, awards, prized publications framed, and the obligatory family photograph sitting on his desk.

Peter’s been in here many times before, and it’s usually a welcoming space. But today, with J. Jonah Jameson sitting in Harrington’s tall-backed leather chair, and Harrington perched on the edge of one of his cupboards, arms folded across his stomach, hunched over and looking a little worse for wear, the hairs on Peter’s skin are on end. His Spidey-sense is on full alert.

“Sit,” Jameson commands both of them.

Jones takes one of the chairs in front of the desk, Peter takes the other.

The man says nothing for a full minute, just looking between the two of them. The only indication he gets that Jones is as stressed as him, is the way she shifts ever so slightly in her seat, and the way she curls her fingers around the back of her hand a little more tightly.

“So, you’re the infamous Peter Parker, huh?” Jameson finally says. His voice a little too loud for the space.

“Sir?”

“Oh now don’t play modest. Modesty’s for weak-willed pussies.”

He can literally feel Jones bristle at that, but the man continues on oblivious. Or, more likely, he knows, and he just doesn’t care.

“You’re the kid that managed to score an interview with Spider-Man?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“How did you pull that one off, then? I’ve been dying to know. You know, the little punk actually refused to do an article for the _Daily Bugle_? Sent me a little note telling me to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

Peter swallows down the urge to cough. Because that is not what happened. He’d sent a very polite letter, simply saying _thanks, but no thanks._

“All these goddamn vigilantes running amok; think they’re doing good and want to be hero-worshipped when they’re the worst sort of criminals. Ruining this city.”

“What? Worse than the murderers, and the rapists? Drug smugglers and paedophiles?”

Somehow it shouldn’t surprise him that it’s Jones that pipes up, but it does.

There’s a challenge in her tone, a stiffness in her backbone as if she’s barely restraining herself from leaping across the desk and strangling the man in front of them. She and every woman in the world have plenty of reasons to hate him, and the men too – if they have any shred of decency. He has quite the reputation, and it's more than likely that only money and friends in high places have seen him get away with the things that he has.

Said asshole turns his beady eyes in her direction, and Peter admires the fact she doesn’t flinch away.

“Ah Miss Jones. Yes. I know all about you, too. Your idea wasn’t it? To turn March’s edition into a watered-down version of _Ms. Magazine._ ”

“Actually,” it’s Peter that jumps in, and he doesn’t know where it comes from, but he rolls with it, “that edition in honour of International Women’s Day was our second-biggest seller, and Miss Jones’ article was up for consideration in the National Magazine Awards in the Single-Topic Category. _Sir_.” Peter tacks the biting address on unnecessarily, but he feels strangely powerful with it.

Which is ridiculous given what he can _really_ do.

He feels Jones’ gaze on him, and he’s just as surprised at the instinctive iciness of his response. He brushes it aside – after all, she defended him too, albeit unknowingly.

“I’m well aware,” Jameson says then, not that he sounds happy about it. “Which is why I’m giving you the chance to show me that this magazine is worth saving.”

Peter’s stomach drops to the bottom of his feet. No, lower than that. He thinks it plummets twenty-three floors down to the ground.

“It’s not just departmental cuts, is it? You want to cut the whole magazine.”

“Ding, ding, give the lady a prize. Maybe you are smarter than you are pretty, Miss Jones.”

And that, Peter thinks, is enough. He can see her fist tighten at the poorly disguised insult, the way she starts to lean forward and likely on the verge of saying something that’s gonna get them both fired. And so, he reaches out and clasps his hand against her shoulder and holds her back.

It’s a risky move. Jones turns that glare on him then, but he stays firm.

“What is it that you want us to do?”

Jameson leans forwards, hands steepling under his chin as he assesses them.

“Since you both seem to be the only ones in tune with what our readers want – however, much I don’t like it – I know business, Mr Parker and Miss Jones. I want the both of you to work together and come up with a piece that’s going to razzle dazzle me, and our readers. I want to see a fifty percent increase in readership by the end of June 2028.

“That’s it. You can go now,” he ends with, as if he hadn’t just lumped them with a near impossible task. And he knows it, if that smug smirk is anything to go by.

They can’t ask any more questions, because he’s snapping his fingers at one of his put-upon secretaries and asking them to ring his wife and tell her he won’t be home till late again, and _yes, send her a bunch of roses and chocolates_ to go with the half-assed apology.

Harrington eyes the both of them from where he’s been sitting quietly the whole time and jerks his head towards the door. Both an unspoken communication of _go save yourself_ and _we’ll talk about this later._

They both file silently out the room.

All eyes in the large, office space turn to look at them as they do, and he can sense Jones clam up in front of him.

She breathes, deep and heavy, and mutters something unintelligible under her breath before taking a sharp turn towards the corridor leading to the break room.

He can see Ned across the room from him, wide-eyed, mouthing a clear _“what happened?!”_ at him.

But Peter simply shakes his head and mouths back a _“later”_ and then does something almost as brave as leaping off the roof of a skyscraper.

He follows after Michelle Jones.

 

)(

 

UGHHHHHH.

She wanted to punch that smug, chauvinistic bastard in the face so badly. Who is she kidding? She still wants to. She also wants to wedge a pencil deep into his carotid, and really the homicidal urge should scare her, but she comforts herself in thinking she’s not alone. She thinks Peter – friendly, and good-natured, entirely too wholesome to be real – Parker had thought about it too, if the way he reached out and squeezed her shoulder was any indication.

And speaking of _friendly._

“Hey, you okay?”

She breathes out, staring at the coffee machine, fingers pressing into the edge of the counter top. She doesn’t look at him.

“Fan-fucking-tastic, thanks. You?”

He hovers there at the doorway, one foot in, one foot out. He breathes out. “I’ve had better days.” And then: “What a dick, right?”

And she can’t help it, all that tension is released in a sharp, short laugh. “That’s putting it mildly, Parker.”

He steps into the room, comes a little closer, and this is already the longest conversation they’ve had, and she knows that’s entirely her fault.

Not that she can remember why.

He stops beside her, leaning back against the counter.

In her boots, he’s noticeably shorter than she is, and he has to tilt his head back to look up at her.

His eyes are a soft, molten brown, and she flashes back to the day they first met – spilled coffee, and endless apologies, and puppy-dog eyes that melted her exterior _just like that_ , and yep.

_That’s why._

“What do you say, Michelle?” he asks, and the use of her first name is jarring. “Wanna save our magazine with me?”

She raises an eyebrow as she looks down at him, standing there with a faint blush on his cheeks, and hand outstretched.

“And prove the son-of-a-bitch wrong?” she adds. “Sure. Why not?”

And then she’s slipping her hand into his and they’re shaking on it.

His grip is warm and firm, and then he’s slipping his hand away and into his back pocket, and the awkwardness settles in.

“Okay, right,” he says, pointing the thumb of his free hand behind him, “I should go tell Ned the news.”

“You know it’ll spread like wildfire from Leeds’ lips, don’t you?”

He grins. “Yep.”

And she gets it. She shakes her head, though she refuses to smile. “Sneaky, Parker,” she comments, and there’s partial praise in the two words. After all, it’s so much easier to get someone else to break the bad news for you. Yeah, it’ll whip the office up into a frenzy, but ultimately, they’re all in this capsizing boat together – doesn’t make sense to keep this from them, even if she’d read between the lines and it’s what Harrington wanted, at least for the moment.

Yeah, Jameson’s tasked them with writing the mother of all articles, but they’re a team – Flash Thompson included – and if they’re gonna save _NY Pulse,_ they’re gonna do it together.

And the sooner they know what’s going down, the better.

And it seems Peter Parker’s on the same page.

“Hey, Parker,” she calls out just as he’s passing through the door.

He stops and tilts his head back. “Yeah?”

“It’s MJ.”

He frowns, confused.

“I prefer MJ, to Michelle.”

“Oh,” he says then, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “Cool.”

“Ok, that’s it. You can go now, Parker.”

“It’s Peter,” he says to that.

She simply shrugs her shoulder, and says, _“I know.”_

He shakes his head, and this time, he does leave.

Leaving her with nothing but the gentle hum of the coffee machine in front of her and the feeling that _everything_ is about to change.

 

))((

 


	2. October 2027; Issue No. 102

                                           

                                            

 

It’s after the initial panic sets in, and Harrington has words with him for spilling the beans.

(“It’s not how I would have liked the team finding out, Parker.”

“Sorry.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are. Now go, get out of here, and get your head together with Jones and come up with some ideas.”)

And it’s after that panic turns to resigned defeat and morale in the office hits an all-time low – even Flash can’t find it in him to come up with a more inspiring insult than the very playground _Penis Parker_ – when Jones, _MJ_ he means, _finally_ loses the plot.

It’s been brewing for days and he’s just been waiting for it to happen. For her to boil over.

In true MJ style, she clambers on top of her desk in the middle of the workday, abruptly and with no warning. She’s all long limbs and wild hair, curls millimetres away from brushing the ceiling lights as she straightens up, towering over them like some Amazonian queen. Her voice is loud and clear, resonating to each corner of the room as she speaks;

“Listen up people. I’m only gonna say this once. This magazine isn’t dead yet, so stop acting like it’s a fucking funeral, and start coming up with some ideas, already. I’m not gonna let Shithead Jameson sink what we’ve been working so hard on for years, are you?”

Brown and Moon, both copy-writers, chime in with a hearty “NO!” but MJ barely acknowledges the show of enthusiasm as she barrels on. “Just come up with some ideas guys; good, bad, don’t care, just _something_ , and come see me or Parker when you have.”

She then promptly sits back down, keeping her call to arms short and sweet.

The ensuing silence is broken only by the slow-clap that resounds around the room, courtesy of Ned Leeds.

MJ throws another crumpled post-it in his direction. It’s become an almost habitual instinct, though she misses on this occasion. “Shut up, dork.”

The words lack any real bite.

But whatever it is she did though, _it works_.

Morale starts to lift, ideas start to circulate, and for once, Peter feels hopeful that they’ll all get to keep their jobs.

There’s a long way to go yet.

But it’s a start.

 

-

 

It’s the middle of October when Peter starts bringing her cups of coffee in the morning.

The first time he does it, he just drops it gently on the corner of her desk, doesn’t even hang around to wait for her to acknowledge it before taking his seat and ignoring Ned’s _“Dude! Where’s my one?”_

She stops her typing, eyes drifting over to the cup and glares at it as if it’s a cursed object.

She looks across the room at him, and he makes a point of staring at his computer screen. And _only_ his computer screen.

“What’s this, Parker?”

“Coffee.”

“I can see that, _why?_ ”

“Can’t a friend get another friend coffee?”

“Yeah, and what about this friend?” Ned interjects, scowling at him.

Not that Peter hears him. He’s too busy watching MJ now that she’s no longer looking his way. It makes him stupidly happy to see her pick the coffee cup up and take a cautious sip.

Because, ever since that day in the break room, he’s not really sure where they stand with each other. He _thinks_ they’re friends, but apart from allowing him and by extension Ned, to call her by her preferred name, not a lot has changed in her demeanour and their day to day interactions. And, well, Peter can’t help it – he wants her to like them, for no other reason than the fact she’s pretty awesome, and he’s always thought so.

When he’d gone off on one to Jameson about her work on the March edition, he hadn’t been exaggerating. He’d been new to the staff writer’s team, and to see what this magazine and its writers were capable of, made him a fan of not only the publication, but the people working here (excluding maybe Flash, of course). And it had helped convince him that he’d made the right decision working for _NY Pulse._

And, MJ, whether she knows it or not, had been part of that process. Even when she’d spent his first day shooting daggers through narrowed eyes, t-shirt stubbornly unchanged so the coffee stain could also stare angrily back at him for ten hours straight, he’d known she was a force to be reckoned with and he’d wanted the opportunity to try.

“Black?” she asks with an arched brow, interrupting his thoughts.

“No sugar,” he adds proudly.

“Creep.”

He laughs, but he swears there’s a flicker of a smile on her lips as she takes a bigger sip and returns her gaze to her computer monitor.

When he spins back around, it’s to Ned staring at him with wide eyes and a whispered, “what the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

And Ned knows it.

 _“Yeah, right,”_ he scoffs. _“And Darth Vader is my dad.”_

)(

 

MJ feels like she’s drowning.

On top of trying to figure out what the hell they can do to drive their circulation figures up and increase traffic to their website, she still has work to do on November’s special edition celebrating the _Daily Bugle_ and its 50th anniversary.

And yeah, she’d rather stick hot pokers in her eyes than write flowery shit about Jameson and his legacy, but now with _NY Pulse’s_ future in the balance, it seems she can do little else but be a good little sheep and do as she’s been told.

And so that’s the only reason why she finds herself down on the third floor one afternoon, stuck in storage, looking through the old archives. She’d already dug out a few old pieces – the one’s covering the _Daily Bugle’s_ hey days when it first started out, and of course, the rare Pulitzer winning article that Harrington had asked her to. They’re still sitting under a pile of ever-growing crap on her desk.

But it’s the missing issue to complete her piece – the last one published while Jameson was still Editor-In-Chief – that’s got her here. And for the life of her she can’t find it anywhere.

She paces up and down the dusty rows and rows of files, following the numbering system by issue year, month and date and serial number. But where this particular article should be – _there’s nothing._

But it’s not just a missing edition – it’s an entire cabinet _gone_.

As if someone had just picked it up and moved it elsewhere, leaving a tracing of dust in a square around untouched flooring that hadn’t discoloured from years of use and footfall.

_It’s weird._

Resigned to not finding something that just isn’t there, she shrugs it off.

Not that she can forget about it entirely.

It’s 6pm, when she’s clocking off, walking out the front foyer, and Bill waves her a “good night, Miss Jones,” that she stops in her tracks and takes a few steps backwards towards him. The heels of her boots clicking against the polished floor as she does.

Bill looks at her surprised. “Something the matter?”

“No, it’s nothing really. I’m just curious. Editions of the _Daily Bugle_ from the late 90’s, right before Jameson stepped down, have they been moved somewhere else?”

It’s an infinitesimal moment, the tiniest of tells, but there’s a little tremble to the smile on old Bill’s face and his eyes widen just a fraction. “I wouldn’t know Miss Jones. I just sit here all day, every day, and watch the door.”

MJ gives him a smile. “Oh I don’t know. Forty years you’ve been here – figured you know more about this place than anybody . . .”

Bill laughs, hearty and deep, before striking his right index finger against the side of his nose. “It’s from keeping this out of places it’s not wanted that’s given me those forty years.”

And the point’s been made.

“Have a good night, Bill,” she says, heading once more for the revolving doors.

“You too, Miss Jones.”

 

-

 

 _“It’s weird, isn’t it?”_ she’ll tell Liz once she gets home, dropping her bag with a thud on the coffee table, and falling backwards onto the three-seater.

“What the mystery of the missing newspapers?” Liz asks, and though she can’t see her from this position, MJ’s pretty sure her housemate is laughing at her.

She hears the clack of fingernails against the keyboard of her laptop as she sits there curled in the armchair. It stops for a moment, as she sips on her red wine, before dropping it back down on the smaller coffee table beside her.

“It’s weird.”

“It’s a newspaper that’s been running for fifty years. Pretty sure there are a lot of things missing, or not filed right. You and your conspiracy theories, MJ.”

MJ lifts the cushion beside her and lobs it in the general direction of her friend.

“Hey!” she says. “You know you have a problem, don’t you? You and your projectiles and awful aim.”

“I was awesome at shotput and the javelin, I’ll have you know.”

“Sorry hun, but you were _bad_ at Phys. Ed and you know it.”

“All the more reason for me to practice!” She throws the cushion that was under her head this time, but Liz is ready for it, catching it easily and then proceeding to whack her legs with it, repeatedly.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” MJ surrenders, lifting her legs up in the air to avoid the physical abuse, before pushing herself to sitting and dropping her feet to the ground. She grabs the cushion off Liz and sits back, hugging it to her chest.

“How was work?” she asks once she’s got her breath back.

“Same old,” Liz answers, picking up her laptop again and settling back in her seat.

“Oh,” she continues then, as if just remembering something, “before I forget; any plans next Friday evening?”

“No . . .” MJ says cautiously, her mind doing the mental maths.

“Good, because –”

“No,” she interrupts, “as in _no_ , I’m not going trick or treating with your nephew and niece, no matter how adorable they are.”

Liz pouts at her. “How did you even know I was going to say that?”

“Because you say it every year –”

“And last year, you made up some shit excuse about having to work –”

“- I did! Have to work!”

“- so you’re coming this year. Period.”

MJ groans and throws the cushion one last time.

Liz doesn’t bother dodging this time and it hits her square in the face.

_Good._

)(

 

“Trick or treating.”

“No.”

“Come on, man! It’ll be fun! We haven’t done it in years!”

“Yeah, because we’re grown men now!” Peter says with a hand in the air and a tone that suggests this shouldn’t even be a topic of conversation.

“Not from where I’m sitting,” MJ says to that, digging in the metaphorical knife.

“Okay Jones, who said you could sit with us?”

She puts her hand over her chest. “Ouch.” But the flat tone, and sparkling eyes tell a different story.

Somehow the month’s flown by in a haze of work, work, work, and the nightly Spider-Man saves in between. And so, October 31st is upon them once more. AKA the day of the year Peter has lost all love for.

Ever since he became Spider-Man, Halloween has lost all it’s charm. Yes, it should be flattering seeing all the kids out there dressed as him (and it sorta is), but then it makes his job ten times harder as no one takes him seriously, and all the criminals have a field day because they can run around scot-free in masked costumes.

Halloween is _hard work._

“You give good Mean Girl, Parker.”

Ned sniggers.

They’re sitting in the break room. It’s a quarter past four – lunch break well overdue, but his hunger pangs have been stamped out with copious coffee. No such story with Ned and MJ though, as they tuck into their 12-inch Subways with gusto.

“You started it,” Peter says, picking another Styrofoam cup from the upturned stack and sticking it in the coffee machine.

“No, you’re right, you’re both very manly men. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.”

He twists his head over his shoulder, to find her smirking at him and it stirs something in his gut which he quickly stamps out. He’s been getting moments like it with increasing frequency lately. He doesn’t put much stock in it, though. He’s not ashamed to say, his experience with the opposite sex is somewhat limited, apart from one serious girlfriend (who crushed his heart), he hasn’t been on a date in a hell of a long time. And what with him being twenty-six years old, it’s not exactly something he’d willingly admit to. But, anyway, the point is, he figures _that_ has something to do with it. Nothing to do with MJ herself, not that she isn’t pretty, or funny when she wants to be, and super-smart, and yeah . . . _Nothing to do with MJ._

“Hey, real men aren’t afraid to show their feelings and cry,” he says over the sound of the machine frothing hot milk into his coffee.

“That is true, Parker,” she concedes easily. “No arguments there. I’m all for breaking down the constructs of toxic masculinity.”

“Of course you are, Jones.” There’s a teasing smile on his lips, but he means it in the best way. There’s something about her when she’s fired up on one of her social justice rants that he loves.

She retorts with two middle fingers.

“I forgot what we were talking about,” Ned says then in between slurping 7up through the straw of his cup.

It’s what he’d been hoping for, but of course, MJ pipes up rather helpfully to remind him. “Trick or Treating.”

Ned points his finger at her and then back at him. “Yes. _That_.”

Peter pulls out the chair opposite them and narrows his gaze at her as he sits down. “Traitor.”

“Hey, I swore no allegiance.”

Ned looks to her then. “What about you? Wanna come with? They’re showing old Hitchcock movies at the Walter Reade – we could go check it out after we show the kids today how it’s really done . . .”

“Tempting,” she says in that way that says it’s _not_. “But I’ve already been roped into taking my housemates’ nephew and niece.”

“Ahh, bummer. Not that you have to go with them -, more that you can’t come -” Ned rambles off a cliff edge.

“Relax, Leeds. I get you.” She takes a last sip of her Coke, and then hurls the empty polystyrene cup in the direction of the waste bin. And, of course, she gets it in one.

“Did you used to play basketball or something?” Peter bursts out like an idiot at her uncanny aim.

And she laughs. Actually, properly, laughs and _it’s brilliant._

“I was godawful at sports. But I’ll take the compliment. Thanks.”

She pushes back her chair, the metal legs scraping against the floor as she does. “Okay, well I’ll see you losers later.”

And like a dork he waves at her disappearing back.

“Dude!” Ned says once she’s gone, looking as if he’s put something together and it has him instantly on guard. _“You like her!”_

“What?” he coughs out, choking on his latte. He follows that with another cough, thump to his chest and a clearing of his throat before saying again, “ _what?_ No. I don’t. I mean, she’s cool, and she’s smart, and . . . yeah. But no! No, man. No, I don’t like her _like that._ I’m not some fifteen-year-old with a crush.”

Ned eyes him sceptically. “Uh huh.”

And this topic, or even this possibility of a topic, is not something he wants indelibly carved into his brain to silently mock himself with later. He needs to change the subject and fast, and so before he can think twice he blurts out a, “fine! Tonight. Trick or Treating, and then Hitchcock. I’m in.”

Ned grins. “Really?”

“Yeah, dude. Really.”

He looks unashamedly ecstatic at the prospect, and Peter can’t help but shake his head and smile at his friend’s enthusiasm.

“When and where should we meet?”

“Um, mine, around 8?”

“This is gonna be awesome!”

It’s only as Ned’s leaving through the door that he turns back and says, “subtle change of topic by the way, don’t think I didn’t notice that.” And then he’s gone. Leaving Peter to grimace into his coffee cup, and curse Halloween all over again.

 

)(

 

No one can say she didn’t try.

She toughs it out for two hours, before she calls it quits. Or more like, Liz shows her some mercy. After all, she didn’t do too badly for a last-minute outfit – all black, leather pants, and an awesome cape with a homemade mask, and voilà, she’s batgirl. So, super-hero purists might say she got the colours all wrong, but _who cares_? Also, she didn’t do too badly in the candy haul; towering over people at five-feet ten-inches with her billowing cape – it’s quite the incentive for people to part with their Halloween loot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” Liz asks, standing there in her _Hermione Granger_ costume, cauldron full of goodies in her left hand, her nephew clinging to her right, and her niece chomping on a toffee apple beside him. _“All you can eat ice-cream?”_ she sing-songs as if that’ll tempt her.

MJ holds up her own cauldron in answer. “I have enough sugar here to send me into a coma until next week. I think I’m okay.”

“Alright, suit yourself,” Liz says, stepping forward to give her a hug before pulling back. “Thanks for coming. The kids loved that you came.”

From their disinterested faces, MJ’s sure they did.

She watches her walk off, throwing a quick wave over her shoulder which she returns with a peace sign, and then with a sigh pulls off her mask and starts walking towards her apartment. It’s a couple of blocks away, but it’s pretty warm for a late October evening, and the streets are still alive with laughter and music spilling from restaurants and bars. She feels as safe as she can be walking the streets of downtown Manhattan. They’re roads she’s walked hundreds of times before. And as much as she hates it, she’s used to the catcalls and the unwanted attention – most of the time, it amounts to nothing, but she never leaves anywhere without her pepper spray and her housekeys are always within easy reach, just in case.

Like now.

She feels it first as a prickle of awareness at the back of her neck. Her pulse steadily rising, her hearing zoning in on the shallow footsteps behind her, keeping an easy distance for the moment.

When she stops at the cross walk, waiting impatiently for the lights to change, the footsteps continue, until they’re stopping beside her. Her heart rate feels like it’s gonna abruptly bottom out, but then she sees it’s a middle-aged man, suited and booted, with a briefcase in hand and cell in the other, and he doesn’t even look up when the lights change, and he charges ahead of her.

She lets out a small sigh of relief.

And that’s her first mistake – _letting her guard down._

Because she doesn’t see it coming – the hand that grabs her out of nowhere and tugs her hard into an alleyway. The streetlamps from the main road cast shafts of light into the area and it’s enough to see the masked face. It’s a clown’s face that looks down at her – fixed, creepy smile, and dark eyes fitting perfectly where the slits are.

It smells of piss and garbage from the overflowing trash cans and there’s fear there too in the air. _Hers._

The scream for help is smothered by the gloved hand and she doesn’t hesitate as she bites down.

“You fuckin’ bitch! Real hellcat, aren’t you?”

He back-hands her hard, and she hits the side of her head on the brick wall. She’s seeing stars, ears ringing but she can feel the way he presses into her, hand squeezing her upper arm, and it takes everything in her to lift her leg and knee him in the groin, taking that split second to scream for help, as loud as she can.

“Shut the fuck up!” the asshole groans, straightening up and she can sense another blow coming as she squeezes her eyes tight – but then _nothing._

_Nothing happens._

She can’t make it out at first, the loud thud, and the sound of crashing metal and a spinning lid on the ground. It’s followed by the crack of bone, and a groan, a cry of pain and pleading. _“I’m sorry man, I didn’t even do anything, not really! Ah shit! Lemme go! Fuck what the hell is this stuff even made of?!”_

She gingerly opens her eyes, and barely stops herself from biting down on her already busted lip. Because, there, almost as if in a spotlight from the street lamps, stuck to the wall beside the trash cans with what looks like the unmistakeable, signature webbing of one Spider-Man, is the son-of-a-bitch who attacked her.

And then, another burst of webbing flies out of nowhere and plasters itself to the jackass’ mouth, so he can’t make another sound.

“Miss, are you okay? Oh god, em- um, I mean, Miss? Can you hear me? You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

It’s only then that she turns her head and sees the outstretched hands, not touching her, but lingering mid-air in the universal sign of ‘I’m not gonna hurt you’ and ‘I come in peace’.

She follows the red hand up the spandex covered arm to the familiar mask, and to the face of her rescuer.

“Neat cosplay, dude.”

And she’d find it hilarious, if she wasn’t this close to collapsing in a trembling heap, how he almost looks offended at that. It’s kinda weird how that mask and those eyes somehow manage to be so expressive.

“It’s not a cosplay,” he says, and there’s something about the voice that registers in the back of her mind, but then he’s clearing his throat and putting on a poor, over-done Queen’s accent. “I’m the real thing, Miss. Your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.”

She laughs, but it tastes metallic on her tongue. It’s blood. _Ah hell._

“Yeah, I know who you are Spidey. My magazine did a whole spread on you a few months ago. Not been seeing a lot of you since.”

He scratches at the back of his head. “Oh right. You work for _NY Pulse._ Yeah that uh Peter Parker. He’s a good dude.”

She raises her brow at that. “That why you gave him an exclusive?”

“Uh,” he stammers, shifting on his feet.

“Relax, this is off the record. Anyway, maybe you’ll give me an interview another day, when my head doesn’t feel like it’s gonna explode.”

He manages to look alarmed at that as her injuries finally register. He takes a step forward, and she doesn’t flinch away as he tentatively reaches out. With the slightest tilt of her head she gives him the permission he’s seeking and lets him run a finger down the side of her face, thumb pressing into her lip. It feels odd – the feel of his suit, and instinctively she knows it probably works to keep him from overheating, but the touch is still warm.

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine.” And then adds before she can talk herself out of it, “but you could stay with me just until the cops come? No way I’m letting this asshole get away scot-free.”

And Spider-Man breathes out a small laugh then. It’s a mixture between amusement and what feels a little like amazement. At her. _And again_. It sounds so familiar.

“Sure, no problem, Miss. They’re already on their way.”

It figures that he has some way to call them. Probably some high-tech gadgetry hidden in his suit.

“I’ll be right here if you need me,” he says then, before swinging up the side of the building, and landing with a crouch on the rooftop.

She can see his outline, silhouetted in the moonlight, and she feels _safe._

“Hey, Spidey?” she calls up to him.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the save.”

“Any time,” he promises into the night air.

And she believes him.

 

)(

 

It’s complete, sheer, dumb luck that Peter stumbles across MJ that night.

Sheer, dumb luck that he’s eternally grateful for.

He doesn’t even want to think about what may have happened if he hadn’t heard the scream while he’d been swinging his legs, sitting on the edge of a nearby rooftop, biting into a candy cane gifted to him by a kid in a homemade Spider-Man costume. She’d been so impressed with his suit, she’d nearly handed over her entire haul. Peter had agreed to take just the one, and told the little girl, he actually liked her mask a whole lot better than his. _“At least you can see better than me,”_ he’d lied, but he figures, a little white lie now and again never did any harm. Especially when she’d beamed back at him, missing molar proudly on display.

The sudden scream into the relative quiet of the night had made his blood curdle. He’d dropped the remainder of his candy and had swung instantly into action, following the sound of heavy breathing and panic.

It had been fairly easy to subdue the attacker, and it wasn’t until he’d turned to check on the woman, he’d realised with a gut-punch who it was.

He very nearly slipped up and called her by her name, but luckily, she hadn’t caught on.

Try as he might, he can’t shake the image of her wide terrified eyes, the anger trembling through her, the bleeding forehead and split lip from his mind. Remembers only the cold fury running through his veins.

But she hadn’t needed his anger then.

Sure, they’d only become something resembling friends in the last few weeks, but from six months of casually observing his colleague from afar, he’d quickly learnt that MJ isn’t the sort of woman who likes to be seen as weak.

Michelle Jones is no damsel in distress.

And so, he’d followed her lead when she’d brought up the article. Turned a blind eye to her trembling legs and blood-shot eyes and let her take charge.

He’d wanted to take her to the hospital, but he respected her choice. And so instead, he did what he could and waited until the cops showed up, listening from the rooftop above her, hiding in the shadows.

“What happened, Miss?” the cop had asked, disinterestedly.

“The asshole attacked me that’s what.”

“From where I’m standing, looks like he was the one who was attacked, Miss.”

“Are you shittin’ me? Look at my face, and say that again –”

“No need for the aggression, Miss.”

Peter had clenched his fists at that. And the city wonders why it needs its vigilantes and super-heroes? He knows the police do good work, but they let down the people they’re sworn to protect more often than not, and it’s frustrating as hell.

“I’m sorry, Miss.” Another voice chirped up, a little more empathetic. “Please tell us what happened?”

He could hear the deep breath MJ took in before explaining how she’d been walking home, had been pulled aside, physically assaulted, how she’d screamed for help and Spider-Man had intervened.

“Spider-Man?”

“Unless you know any other weirdo running around in spandex, able to shoot webbing out of their arms and stick bad guys to the walls, making your life easier? Then yeah, _Spider-Man._ ”

“We’re gonna need you to come down to the station Miss and make a formal statement.”

MJ had sighed then. “Gladly.”

It had been just the one word – but he could have sworn she’d meant a hundred different things by it, though mostly this:

_Fucking finally._

Which brings him to here, _now_ , waiting outside the police station, out of sight, for her to re-emerge. She doesn’t until an hour and a half later, and he’s somewhat relieved to see she’s at least been given some first aid while she’s been in there. It also looks like the police have had the decency to make sure she gets a licensed cab home, but it surprises him that she hasn’t called anyone to take her instead. He doesn’t linger on that thought though, as he follows from a safe distance behind the car all the way to her apartment.

A short fifteen minutes later, he’s watching as she gets out of the cab, walks up the steps outside her building with the streetlights glinting off the keys in her hand. She stops there once the door is opened and turns around, and for a moment it feels like she’s staring straight at him. Hidden though he is behind the thick trunk of an old elm and endless shadows, she somehow _knows_ he’s there. There’s a glimmer of something in her eyes but it disappears when she turns around and slips inside.

He waits until the light flickers on at what he presumes is her window. He waits until he sees her shadow pass across it and the blinds are pulled and the light goes off once more. He waits until he’s convinced himself she’s safe, and _only then_ does he leave.

He wonders distractedly on his way home if he and Ned are her only friends. He knows she has a roommate, and figures they’re friends too, and that there must be a reason she didn’t call her. But it makes him sad to think she possibly had no one else.

It isn’t until he’s climbing in through his own sixth storey bedroom window, switching on his own lights and stumbling into his living room that he remembers something he’d completely forgotten about. Something else he was supposed to do tonight apart from swing around the streets of New York and save his friend.

Because _, speaking of friends . . ._

“HOLY SHIT.”

_Crap._

Peter flicks the switch to the living room, and _yep._

That is definitely Ned Leeds, sitting on his couch, dressed as Han Solo, stunned into silence.

“Spider-Man! Holy shit, you’re Spider-Man!” And then: “. . . _What the hell are you doing breaking into my friend’s house?”_

_Oh shit._

“You’re supposed to be one of the good guys! I can’t believe this . . . Unless . . . _oh my god!_ Don’t hurt me please! You can take whatever you want! It’s not even my stuff!” He edges behind the couch, arms covering his head as his eyes squeeze shut. “Please don’t hurt me!”

“Ned. Ned! NED!”

His best friend slowly puts his arms down, eyes blinking open and he can see the voice registering and recognition dawning.

_“Peter?”_

He’s so well and truly busted as he takes off the mask and presses on the spider insignia on the centre of his chest, and the suit loosens around him.

Ned goggles at him.

“PETER?”

“Yeah dude. It’s me.”

Ned steps forwards, cautiously. And says, carefully, slowly, like he still can’t believe this is happening; “either you just spent a shit ton of money on the coolest cosplay I’ve every seen, or _you’re freakin’ Spider-Man_. And given the fact I’ve been sitting in your living room, waiting for the last three hours for you to show, and that front door hasn’t budged once, I’m gonna assume _you’re freakin’ Spider-Man!_ ”

Peter says nothing, simply purses his lips and shrugs in that way that says, _‘yep.’_

“HOLY. SHIT.” Ned repeats himself.

Peter kicks the rest of the suit off him, so he’s standing in nothing but his boxers.

“Ned,” he says, as he spins on the spot, looking for any clothes he might have haphazardly discarded here in the living room. “You can’t say _anything_ to _anyone_ , you got that? How did you even get in here?”

“You know I am the worst at keeping secrets, don’t you?” And to answer his other question, he adds as if he should know better, “spare key, plant pot.”

“I know,” Peter nods, spotting a pair of jeans and a t-shirt hanging off the chair around the small dining table. He grabs them and starts pulling them on. “But I’m gonna have faith,” he continues, once his head is free and arms are slotting into his sleeves, “that you’ve got my best interests at heart, and can do it, Ned. Because _I need you to._ ”

Ned shakes his head. And he still looks like he’s in a daze. If this were a cartoon, there’d be birds flying around his head, and twinkling stars.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter shakes his head. “You _just said_ you’re the worst secret keeper to exist, man.”

“Right,” he says, falling back down onto the couch and sinking into the blue cushioned seats. “You know I have so many questions, right?”

“I know you do, bud.”

“So?”

“So,” Peter sighs, and he takes the bean bag on the floor by the coffee table, “it’s a long story.”

Ned makes himself comfortable. “Start at the beginning.”

“Okay, so –”

“No, wait!” he interrupts, standing up abruptly. “We need snacks.”

Peter throws up his hand, watching as his best friend half-runs into his small kitchen, ransacks the cupboards and returns with a bag of Cheetos and several beer bottles. He sits back in his spot on the couch and looks at him. “Continue,” he says.

“Okay, so, _it happened like this . . ._ ”

 

))((

 


	3. November 2027; Issue No. 103

 

                                            

 

It takes two whole weeks before the concerned frowns, the cloying _“oh you poor thing”_ and the totally non-discreet behind-her-back whispering finally, _mercifully_ , comes to an end.

MJ thinks it has something to do with the fact that’s how long it takes the bruising to fade and the cuts to heal over, and the lack of a physical reminder of her ordeal makes it a distant memory. Well, _that_ , and the fact the _Daily Bugle’s_ 50th Anniversary is fast approaching, along with the mother of all celebrations to go with it. And _they’re_ invited. Not that they’re anything special – Jameson’s managed to find a shred of goodwill and has deigned to invite all the publications under Jameson Inc., along with several renowned celebrities and other publishing houses (just to rub their noses in it, of course).

And for such a sized party, they needed a lavish venue to host. And only the best would do.

_“The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”_ Ned exclaims when he opens up the invite. “Holy shit. This is gonna be epic.”

“Yeah, that and a gross display of the exorbitant wealth and waste of the one percent, the complete ignorance of the ailing economy and the resources of the Earth, and the utter lack of touch with reality. Sure. _It’s gonna be epic_.”

Peter swivels his head in her direction, leaning back in his desk chair. “You know, you don’t have to go, right?”

She scoffs in answer to that. “Free food, free drinks, and the chance to sneak around the gallery after hours? I’m going.”

“I think they’ll probably cordon off most of the museum.”

“Don’t ruin my fun, Parker. I bust my ass getting that piece on the _Daily Bugle_ into the print edition this month before the deadline, I deserve it.” Although, if she’s honest with herself, the article was sub-par at best, with shoddily patched up gaps in the narrative courtesy of the still missing editions – but Harrington hadn’t seemed too bothered, and Jameson had grunted his approval, so according to everyone else it hadn’t really been all that big of a deal. Still, the whole thing continues to bug her.

Oblivious to the inner meanderings of her mind, Peter smiles at her. “Yeah you do deserve some fun,” he says then; voice soft, eyes soft, _so freakin’ soft_ as he looks at her.

He’s been doing that a lot recently. Ever since Halloween night and what happened to her – which she’s only divulged the bare minimum of to _anyone_ (because apparently her explanation of her being in a Fight Club didn’t pass muster because she blatantly disregarded the first rule (or so said Leeds)) – he keeps doing that, and _she hates it._

“I mean,” he clears his throat. “Circulation was up by five percent this month, so that’s great, right?”

She lets it, and by proxy him, go and sticks to the change in subject. “Yeah, just another forty-five percent to go and then the small matter of _sustaining_ it.”

“Don’t be such a downer, Jones,” Ned adds his two cents. “I have a good feeling about this. Things are looking up.”

_“Famous last words, Leeds.”_

 

)(

 

It’s actually a relief not having to lie to Ned anymore about being Spider-Man.

It’s balanced, of course, with the constant need for vigilance that he watches what he says and in front of who.

Peter loses count of the number of times he has to shh him, or shake his head at his off-tangent rambling, or cut him off with a quick “Ned!” if he veers close to asking another question along the line of _“so, in a fight between you and Iron Man, who would win?”_

The answer, he’ll later tell him, away from the sharp ears of Michelle Jones, is: _“I don’t know, Ned. I’ve never met the guy.”_ It’s a complete lie, of course. But he’s not gonna tell him he actually has Tony Stark on speed-dial, and he helped upgrade his suit, because that’s probably one truth-bomb too many for him to handle.

But, if he’s honest with himself though, he doesn’t actually mind the twenty questions so much.

Because he feels infinitely less alone these days with the burden shared and one less person in his life to lie to.

Which leads him, yet again, to think about MJ, and how little he really knows about her and her life. The fact she hadn’t called anyone that evening from the precinct still haunts him. But it’s not something he can outright ask her – not without sounding like an obsessive stalker, or giving away the fact he’s Spider-Man.

And so yeah, he’s staring. _Again._

Ned kicks him helpfully under the desk. “Dude, you’re doing it again!”

He jerks his head away. Thankfully, MJ’s busy typing at her keyboard, focussed on updating the current news page on _NY Pulse’s_ website to notice.

“Doing what?”

“You know exactly what!”

“I was just thinking.”

“Oh yeah? About how pretty MJ’s looking this morning?”

“No,” he whispers harshly, glancing quickly over his shoulder but MJ’s concentration hasn’t faltered. “I was just thinking. And just happened to be looking over in that general direction at the same time.”

Ned nods, smirk on his lips. “Sure.”

“You know, you’ve turned into a bit of an asshole Ned Leeds?” Peter says to that with a shake of his head, though the upward tilt of his lips as he does takes away the sting of the comment.

“That would be my influence,” MJ speaks up right then, still looking at her screen, effortlessly touch-typing away.

Peter feels the heat rising on his cheeks as he mentally back pedals through their conversation searching for whatever self-incriminating thing he may have just said. “Um,” he starts, “how much of that did you hear?”

“Enough to know Leeds thinks I’m pretty.”

He looks over at his friend, and it’s his turn now to turn a fetching shade of pink.

Peter grins, gladly taking the reprieve.

_Ah payback._

_It tastes sweet._

 

)(

 

“What are you wearing to this mega cool shindig then, huh?” Liz asks her lounging on her bed. “That your best friend is sadly not invited to?”

She tacks on that last sentence with a pout, but MJ remains unmoved.

It’s been a blink and miss it kind of week. In between getting the special edition to print on time, coming up with potential articles for next month’s issue and the daily grind of keeping up to date with _NY Pulse’s_ website (forget about actually living her life amongst all that), she hasn’t really been able to put much thought into the grand 50 th Anniversary Party.

And now it’s here.

And she’s here.

Standing there in a bathrobe, frowning at the inside of her closet, wondering how she managed to get this far in life without having a wardrobe crisis and cursing Jameson (once again) for marring her pristine record.

“My only friend,” she corrects Liz, and then adds, “and I don’t know.”

She’s partially kidding about the only friend thing. As friendly as Peter and Ned have been, she still feels like she’s on the outside looking in on their bromance, especially when they take to that ultra-secretive whispering they’ve been doing a lot more of in the last two weeks.

“Well, come on, you’ve got to have something in there?” Liz asks, pushing herself off her unmade bed and padding over to her.

MJ sighs, pulls out an old summer dress, red with a flower print and holds it against her. It was an impulse buy two years ago, and she’s just been ignoring it sitting there on her closet rail this entire time.

“Pretty, but no,” Liz rejects it with a shake of her head. “Great for a date night, but for a super extravagant party at the Met? Nope.”

“It’s not as if anyone will notice.”

“No, but pretty sure, there’s a dress code, and that isn’t it. They’ll turn you away at the door.”

“Good.”

That gets her an eye roll and a stern look.

MJ groans. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

Liz scrunches her nose, thinking lines creasing up the skin between her brows. “I know!” she bursts out with, and MJ has half a mind to switch on her bedroom light for added effect. _“The. Dress.”_

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, I can’t wear that. Thanks for offering, but I’d be terrified of ruining it.”

“You won’t, and it’s not as if you have much choice.”

“It’s not even gonna fit,” MJ protests.

“We’re practically the same height, and there’s such a thing as pads and pins, you do know that, right?”

“Okay, fine,” she breathes out, and she knows she didn’t take much convincing and though she attempts to look put-upon, the little smile on her lips betrays her.

So, maybe she’s a little excited?

_So what?_

 

)(

 

Peter feels stiff and uncomfortable, the collar of his shirt digging into his neck, as he stands awkwardly in the corner of the room, untouched champagne flute in hand.

Ned’s abandoned him for the entrée table.

He arrived an hour late to the event – courtesy of a last-minute wardrobe malfunction, and a mad dash across the city to Queens. Lucky for him, Aunt May took pity on him standing there with a too small suit jacket, and wrongly tied bow-tie, and dragged him inside.

“Is this what it takes for you to come and visit me these days?” she’d asked as she’d brought out one of Uncle Ben’s classic jackets, one she hadn’t had the heart to donate and had kept.

He’d felt the distinct pangs of guilt roil in his stomach at that.

Because, yes, it had been some time. Apart from turning up to their usual Sunday dinners, his sporadic visits throughout the week have become few and far between. Not like how it had been when he’d first moved out – there practically every evening like nothing had changed.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just you know, _NY Pulse_ and . . .”

“I know, Peter. I’m not mad. I just miss you. But I know you have your own life,” she’d said, helping him into the jacket, and stepping back to straighten his bow tie. _“And that other thing.”_

Because, _yep_. Aunt May knows all about his alter-ego thanks to a one-off laundry mishap.

“You know, I’ve cut back on that, haven’t you? Like you asked me to.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he’d answered. As hard as it had been to ignore his instincts to go out there and fight crime 24/7, it had been even harder to erase the utter look of panic in Aunt May’s eyes when she’d understood the extent of danger he gets himself into, swinging between New York’s skyscrapers. And with what had happened to Uncle Ben, he knows her fears aren’t unfounded. It’s part of the reason he sought this job at _NY Pulse_ in the first place.

“Good,” she’d breathed out in relief, before pulling his head towards her and kissing him on the forehead. He’d returned the gesture with a hug and a whispered, “love you, Aunt May.”

“Love you, Pete. Now off you go, handsome,” she’d said pulling back and pushing him towards the door. “Go break some hearts.”

He’d shaken his head at that and muttered an “unlikely” under his breath.

Which brings him to here and now – an hour late and feeling distinctly out of place in the middle of the Met’s _Temple of Dendur_ as the orchestra continues to play a soft string piece in the background, and chatter fills the foreground. Sparkling chandeliers and glassware, and diamonds glittering off ears and collarbones find him every which way he turns. It’s dizzying.

But it’s nothing to the air being knocked out of his lungs when he turns and sees _her_.

In a floor length, navy blue dress, curls out in their natural state and brushing her bare shoulders, familiar scowl on her lips as she looks toward the sudden raucous laughter coming from the centre of the ballroom, Michelle Jones looks _stunning._

Sure, Ned has joked numerous times about how Peter thinks she’s pretty. And he’d answered in such a way to say _well, duh. Of course, she is._ Because objectively speaking, even when you can tell she’d thrown on the first thing she could find on her bedroom floor, and possibly hadn’t even run a brush through her hair that morning, MJ is a beautiful woman. He can admire that in a purely friendly, detached manner. But he thinks it’s unfair to reduce her – or any woman for that matter – down to just that. Because MJ is so many things – talented, sharp, witty, intimidating in a good way – and yeah, he’ll have to remind himself of that at some point, but for now all he can manage is a breathless:

_“Wow.”_

And it’s almost as if she hears him, turning her head then in his direction. Her eyes find his gaze instantly. He swears they flicker slightly up and down, taking him in, and his heart rushes in his ears at that. She starts to lift her hand, and for a brief second, he thinks it’s to wave at him.

But, _no._

She unwinds her middle finger and flips him the bird.

He laughs, loud and uninhibited. And it’s the first time tonight that he’s felt glad to be here.

“What’s so funny?” Ned asks joining him. The words are spoken around a mouthful of Deviled Quail egg and black caviar, before he offers him one, and which he absentmindedly takes in hand.

“Oh, um, it’s . . .” he trails off when he spins back to find the spot where she’d been standing empty. “Nothing,” he finishes.

He looks around the room, but it’s hard to see through the suits and shimmering dresses, but then there’s a buzz of feedback and a hush falls as someone speaks and his attention is drawn to the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the _Daily Bugle’s_ 50th anniversary celebrations! I am honoured indeed to introduce the man of the moment, Mr J. Jonah Jameson!”

Applause rings around him, and Peter manages a tepid one-two clap.

He’s not really listening as Jameson starts rambling on about his paper’s humble beginnings and where it is today – something about it being the city’s leading purveyor of unfiltered truth – which is all –

_“Bullshit.”_

He feels the warm breath against his left ear. He tilts slightly to look up beside him, but MJ’s still glaring ahead at the man up on stage and his endless stream of lies. He feels his pulse pick up and tells himself to get a grip. Because this is _MJ_. His colleague. His friend. And she’ll eviscerate him if he so much as attempts to articulate how amazing she looks or even just looks at her funny.

And so he clears his throat, and sticks to whispering back in agreement. “Complete bullshit.”

He tries to pay attention to the rest of the speech, but it’s a tall order, and it’s only when he thinks the ending is near that something in Jameson’s monologue jumps out at him.

“Fifty years is a long time in this industry – I’ve seen presidents change, and wars won and lost, and seen how the city has continued to evolve, and the _Daily Bugle_ has always been about moving forward with the times, and a champion of innovation, and so with that said, I think it’s the perfect time for me to announce our upcoming partnership with the mighty and brilliant Oscorp! _Mr Harry Osborn, where are you son?_ ” he calls out, scanning the room, before a glass is raised somewhere amongst the crowd. “Ah! There he is! Your father was a great man, may he rest in peace, and I’m sure he’ll be proud of the work you’ve done and the work we can continue to do with our efforts combined. Now, I think I’ve gone on long enough –”

There’s a polite smattering of fake laughter at that, before he finishes off, “so, finally, I’ll leave you with this toast: Here’s to another fifty years! May we see the world change for the better and the _Daily Bugle_ always be the first to report it!”

Murmurs of agreement flood through the ballroom and champagne glasses are held aloft in solidarity. Peter doesn’t join in. Neither does MJ, or Ned. He even catches a glimpse of Harrington who takes a large gulp of his drink and turns away.

A sick sense of dread fills his stomach.

Because Peter knows Oscorp.

Knows Oscorp better than he ever could have imagined.

He also knows Harry Osborn very well, indeed.

And if Oscorp have their hands in Jameson, Inc.? Well, that’s not good news for anyone.

“So much for the news having no affiliation or room for manipulation and bias,” Ned mutters what they’re all thinking.

Peter nods in agreement, though it’s probably worth pointing out that the _Daily Bugle_ has always had an ingrained bias, and expects MJ to say something along those lines, but when he looks up towards her, he notices that she’s gone stone-cold rigid; her eyes fixed on someone in the crowd.

“MJ?”

_“MJ?”_ another voice echoes, and he and Ned turn their heads to the incoming figure emerging from the crowd.

His first thought is _it’s Harry Osborn._

The second only registers when he’s reaching forward and pressing a kiss to MJ’s cheek and pulling her into a hug. He wants to say, casually and as cool-as-you-like, _“oh you two know each other?”_ but instead, he stands there gaping like a fool and succumbing to that horrible feeling growing in his stomach, like diseased vines sucking the life out of him.

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” he says to her, ignoring him and Ned outright. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Peter sneaks a look at MJ and she looks super uncomfortable right now, and that protective instinct kicks right in. Sure, she can handle herself, but she looks a little too dumbstruck at the moment to save herself.

He clears his throat. “Hi, Harry.”

Harry Osborn does a double-take, before spinning around towards him, though his hand lingers noticeably on MJ’s bare upper arm.

“Peter Parker?” And then, “Ned Leeds? Is that you? Wow, it’s like a mini-Midtown reunion right here!”

“You guys know each other?” MJ finally speaks up, stealing his line.

“Yeah,” Harry answers, hand falling heavy on Peter’s shoulder and squeezing a little too hard.

Harry Osborn stands at six-foot-three, dark hair, dark eyes and a chiselled jaw. He’s grown into a handsome man from the gangly nerd Peter grew up with. Sadly, only one of them has grown past the nerd stage.

“Yeah, we went to the same high school. We used to be best buds. Leeds here was our third-wheeler.”

Ned pales, and Harry laughs it off. “Just kidding. I’m kidding.”

“Yeah,” Ned speaks up. “Not quite how I remember it Osborn.”

“So,” Harry starts, clapping his hands together and ignoring the remark, “you guys all work for Jameson, huh? He’s a great man.”

MJ bites down on her lower lip, averting her gaze, skin taut over her knuckles as she tightens her grip on her clutch bag.

“We work for _NY Pulse._ ”

“Ah the same magazine MJ here works for. Thought you were happy free-lancing Parker. Gotta say those photographs you took for our portfolio last year were brilliant.”

“So brilliant you never used them,” Peter retorts.

“Tough break, man. We just went in another direction.”

Ned cuts in before Peter can say anything else. “So, how do you and MJ know each other?”

“Aw babe,” he says, turning towards her, “you didn’t tell them about us?”

Yeah, those vines? Peter can feel their tendrils wrapping around his ribcage right about now.

“There’s nothing to tell,” MJ spits out, and finally there’s a little fire dancing in her eyes and those vines loosen their grip a fraction.

Harry looks nervously over at Peter and Ned, and while Peter manages to keep his expression neutral, Ned openly smirks at him being so summarily shut down. He turns back to MJ and lowers his voice. “Babe, can we go somewhere and talk? _Please?”_

Peter wants her to say no. He wants her to say no so badly he can’t even explain why. It’s not jealousy. _No, it’s not._ It’s just he doesn’t trust Harry Osborn as far as he can throw him – and that’s _pretty far._

But, of course, MJ doesn’t do that. No, she simply tugs her arm free from his grasp and starts walking.

“See you gents, later,” Harry turns to them and says, before following after her.

Peter watches them disappear, and it’s not until after they’ve gone from sight completely, that he hears Ned breathe out;

_“What a dick.”_

He’s inclined to agree.

 

)(

 

MJ knew she’d been right the first time.

She should have just stayed in bed this morning.

Because no amount of free food and alcohol is going to make schmoozing with these assholes any more palatable. Seeing Peter Parker looking pretty damn dapper in his tux had almost made it all better but then Harry the-bastard Osborn had made an unexpected appearance and ruined it all. And so, she’s back at square one – wishing she was under her bed covers, drowning the world out with some vintage Beyoncé instead of sneaking into a (technically closed, thankfully unoccupied) gallery at the Met, with her ex-boyfriend snapping at her heels.

Looking back on it now, she should have seen the warning signs.

She’s done enough pieces on emotionally abusive asshats to recognise one. She’s always thought she was smart. Smart enough to stop herself from falling into that cycle in the first place, and definitely strong enough to pull herself out. But then, doesn’t everyone who’s unfortunate enough to fall into an unhealthy relationship?

She remembers the first day they met.

She’d been fresh out of NYU, journalism degree in hand, ready to take on the world. She’d had a job interview lined up at the _New York Post_ that morning. It was an entry level job, but that’s all she needed. A foot in the door.

And what she’d got was her black coffee spilled right down the front of her white shirt instead. She’d looked up to find Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome, staring down at her aghast and so apologetic. And he’d been charming as hell and told her he knew people at the _New York Post_ and he could explain to them what happened, get her interview pushed by an hour or two, and that he could buy her dinner after to apologise and celebrate, because of course she was going to get the job. And yeah, the cocky, charming routine at first rubbed her the wrong way; and it was partly because she didn’t believe him, that had led her to uttering those two fateful words: _“prove it.”_

_And he had._

And well, he turned up the charm factor, with tantalising glimpses of honesty and bright ideals for the world and the future that in hindsight was everything she had wanted to hear. And she fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.

The honeymoon phase lasted six months.

And then things started to change.

He got a little more controlling, arguments would end with her feeling like she was the bad guy when she could have sworn he was at fault. He _hated_ that she’d left her shit-paying, glorified-intern job at the _New York Post_ for _NY Pulse_ , and made sure she didn’t hear the end of it day-in, day-out. She tolerated it for years.

She even suspected infidelity on a number of occasions, but she never had any concrete proof. And it wasn’t until about four months ago when she’d finally got it – the keys to her locked dungeon.

He’d been in the shower while she’d been lounging in the ridiculous living room of his penthouse, when she’d accidentally picked up his phone to a horny female on the other end, expecting her weekly booty call. She’d hung up in shock – because, even then, a small part of her _hadn’t wanted it to be true._ And when she’d finally confronted him about it, he’d had the gall to not only admit to it but _blame her_ as well _._

So, yeah. By then, _she was done._

And she’d been doing a pretty damn good job of avoiding him since.

Until now.

Which is why seeing him again today is the last thing she’d wanted, and she certainly doesn’t want to be standing here as he paces back and forth in front of beautiful Egyptian artwork that she can’t properly admire, waiting for him to try and start manipulating her once more.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain, MJ,” he finally says.

“What’s there to explain? You’re a cheating bastard, and somehow it’s my fault?”

“That was a wrong number, you don’t believe I’d actually do that to you, do you?”

She laughs, and it’s biting and bitter. “Right, that was a wrong number? When she called you by your name? And you admitted it when you implied you had to look elsewhere because I wasn’t giving you the time of day? So, you want to die on that hill, do you?”

“Okay, okay,” he runs his hand back and forth through his hair, ruining his artfully set, gelled, hair. “You’re right. I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what else I can say. I’m sorry. I made a mistake, and it’s not like you haven’t made any mistakes, MJ. You’re no saint.”

And her blood runs cold, and she feels sick to her stomach, because she knows exactly what he’s referring to, and she feels like he’s going to hold it over her head till her dying day.

“That was an accident,” she says quietly, barely restrained.

“I know, and I forgave you babe. So why can’t you forgive me?”

And she can feel it, the urge to give in, but _no._ She can’t keep doing this.

“Harry,” she says firmly, without wavering, “it’s over. I’m sorry. Please leave me alone.”

And there must be something in her tone which he finally recognises, because his face changes then. And it’s difficult to explain, but it almost feels like he becomes someone else altogether and she feels a shiver run through her, and an inexplicable urge to run.

He smiles then, and it’s all teeth and she feels rooted to the spot as he reaches forward to cup her cheek, thumb resting on her neck, pressing against her carotid, and for one moment, she thinks he’ll do it. _Squeeze._

He’s never physically hurt her before, but it’s only now she realises that she never really knew Harry Osborn at all, and he is absolutely capable of _anything._

But he doesn’t do anything more than linger there, as if to say he could squeeze the life out of her if he really wanted to.

But won’t.

_For now._

No, instead he keeps smiling as he says. “Oh sweetheart, no can do. I’m working with your boss remember? No, in fact, you’ll be seeing a whole lot more of me from now on.”

And then he drops his hand and walks away, dress shoes loud on the flooring, echoing around her as he leaves.

 

)(

 

Peter’s not obsessing. Nope.

He’s worried. He’s allowed to be worried. Because there’s something different about Harry these days, and he’s not who he remembers from his school years. And though he doesn’t believe he’d actually hurt MJ, and he knows she can take care of herself, it still doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry.

Especially when he sees Harry march back into the ballroom, face a mask of calm (though the clenched fist by his side tells another story), and MJ nowhere to be seen.

Five minutes turn into fifteen, and fifteen minutes turns into half an hour, and the party is well and truly going off right now, and it’s embarrassingly easy for him to slip security and go searching for her.

His shoes are a lot louder than his suit, but he figures being dressed as Spider-Man right now would probably garner a heck of a lot more attention.

He wanders from one exhibition room to another, hopping over the red ropes cordoning them off. They’re all empty, lights dimmed, only a few on here and there in glass cases and gentle spotlights above some paintings. But it’s the door that’s still slightly ajar that catches his attention, and he pushes it a little further aside and sticks his head in.

And there she is.

Sitting on a bench in front of what looks like an ancient papyrus scroll that’s been mounted and preserved behind glass, just staring up into space.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Peter!” she practically jumps, hand coming to her throat and bare neck. Apart from a bangle on one hand, she’s very light on the accessories tonight. And if there was any need for further evidence that he’d well and truly startled her, it’s the rare use of his first name that does it. It has his mind reeling, running through all the possibilities of what could have gone down between her and Harry.

“Sorry!” he mouths, hands coming up in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me, Parker. I just . . . I was just –”

“Away with the fairies?” he offers, gently taking a seat next to her, careful to keep his distance.

“Lost in memories.”

“Ah,” he nods. “Good ones? Bad ones?”

She turns to look at him. And it’s the first time tonight that he’s gotten a proper look at her this close. Her lashes are long, eyes lined black and they seem a darker shade of brown in this lighting, and no easier to read than they usually are.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, waving the questions away. “None of my business.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “Both really. Good and bad.”

“Oh.”

She says nothing else. Just stares up at the scroll on the wall. Peter was never any good with history, and never really did cover very much of Ancient Egypt in classes, so he has no idea what the scales mean, but he thinks it’s a pretty apt symbol for where they are right now.

“You know,” she finally says, “I first met Harry in a coffee shop, knocked into me and spilled coffee right down my front.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s an eerily familiar story, except switch the coffee shop for the foyer just outside the elevators of _NY Pulse,_ and it could be them.

“I think,” she continues, “it’s why I didn’t want to get to know you.”

It’s a loaded sentence, and Peter knows it has nothing to do with him or the actual spilling of coffee but more to do with the current state of her relationship with Harry.

She’s not done, though, and it’s her last sentence that really throws him for a loop.

_“I wish I’d met you first.”_

The words are heavy, weighted down with those two tortured words – unspoken, but enduring. _What if?_ Her eyes meet his – open, searching. For what, he has no idea but wishes he did. They linger long enough for it to turn into a moment; her eyes following the slope of his nose, down to his lips and stay there. He knows what he must look like – eyes wide, mouth parted, breath stuck in his chest. He wants to ask her _“what do you mean?”_ , wants to know why it even matters what she means by that, because it shouldn’t. Matter, that is.

In the end, he doesn’t get to ask her.

Because MJ blinks then, and the moment is broken.

She gets up with a deep breath in and out and walks out of the room. Heels clicking on the floor, and she doesn’t turn back.

He sits there for a long while after.

Until the security guards actually do their freakin’ jobs and tell him politely, _“sir, you can’t be in here.”_

And he apologises and walks back to the party.

He spends the rest of the night subconsciously looking for a navy-blue dress, but he knows he won’t find it.

Because he knows, before Ned even tells him, that she’s gone home.

She’ll pretend the following morning that nothing happened.

And he’ll pretend right along with her.

He’ll put the moment down to some strange, rare blip in the cosmos. A moment that could have let the imagination run wild with possibility. At least for those few minutes of vulnerable honesty that seeped into a relationship that’s as much a mystery to him now as it was when he first met her.

But he won’t forget.

_He can’t._

 

))((

 


	4. December 2027; Issue No. 104

 

                                            

 

MJ’s not a huge fan of the holiday season.

Maybe it’s that her childhood memories aren’t filled to the brim with fuzzy feelings and family gatherings, but greasy takeaways, old pitiful decorations that are half falling apart and shit heating in a shoddy Queens apartment that did nothing to keep out the winter chill, instead. And let’s not forget her half-comatose father passed out on the sofa from drinking himself into an oblivion like Christmas night wasn’t any different from the rest.

And, even now, after she’d managed to escape that particular hell-hole of an existence, she’s still left with an unshakeable loneliness. Sure, the year before, she’d spent it at Harry’s, and she’s spent plenty of Christmases at the Allan’s, and although they always make her feel welcome, that yearning for _something more_ has never gone away.

And she always feels it the most acutely this time of the year.

No one else apparently shares her lukewarm attitude to yuletide, though. Especially not _NY Pulse._

You wouldn’t be able to tell from the way the office is lit up and glittering that it’s a magazine in danger of going under.

The smiles on her co-workers’ faces are both irritating and humbling.

Well, Flash’s is just plain irritating.

“Hey, Eugene?” she calls out, spinning around in her chair to face him at the other end of the room. Because, yep, the idiot is definitely standing atop his desk, trying to attach a sprig of mistletoe to the ceiling lights. “Is that the only way you can get someone to kiss you?”

He sticks his middle finger up at her.

She laughs.

“What’s the joke?” a familiar voice asks.

MJ looks up to see Peter rush into the office, out-of-breath as if he’d run up twenty-three flights of stairs instead of just taking the elevator like a normal person. His cheeks are tinged pink with the exertion, tip of his nose red from the cold; there are snowflakes melting in his hair as he unwinds the red scarf from around his neck and hooks it up on the coat stand in the corner. His woollen winter coat follows, and MJ tries not to stare at the way the fabric of his sky-blue dress shirt stretches along the back of his shoulders as he reaches up.

He’s been leaning more smart than casual these days, and it's a  _fucking inconvenience_ is what it is.

She averts her traitorous gaze and goes back to staring at the stock images for this week’s homepage.

“More like who,” she says by way of answer.

Peter snorts, falling into his chair. “What did he do this time?”

She points over her head, and up at the ceiling. His eyes follow and then she sees the smile on his face and knows he’s spotted it.

Flash yells across the room, “hey at least I’ll be getting some action, Parker! When was the last time you got any?”

“Ha! Hilarious,” Peter says to that, though the blush on his cheek tells her the dick comment hadn’t been too far off. She doesn’t understand it though. Because, okay, so maybe he’s a little on the dorky side, and is a huge nerd? But he’s talented, he’s sweet, he’s funny when he wants to be, and he’s not half bad to look at. Objectively speaking, of course. It’s not like she’s gonna deny noticing how he fills out those shirts. A mental picture of him at the 50th anniversary party last month, in _that_ tux, rises unbidden in her mind for the umpteenth time and she forcibly pushes it aside. The point is: he could easily find himself a nice girlfriend, or boyfriend (no judgement, though she’s pretty sure he doesn’t swing that way), if he wanted to. She supposes he just doesn’t want to, and that’s okay too. Because, being in a relationship isn’t really a measure of success. Look at her – one epic trash-fire of a relationship later, and she’s happier now than she has been for a long time. Well, maybe not so much happier, _but freer._

“At least he doesn’t have to force someone to kiss him using tradition as a ropey excuse for consent!” she yells back.

Peter’s gaze flickers over to her, and there’s a tiny smile on his face in gratitude, but she doesn’t make a big deal about it and goes back to staring at her computer screen.

It’s after ten minutes of cycling through the uninspiring photographs available for her to choose from that she finally falls back in her chair with a sigh of defeat.

The clacking across the room stops, and she can feel both Peter and Ned look over at her.

“What’s up Jones?” Leeds asks.

“All these photos are fucking terrible! I can’t use any of them!”

She hears the squeak of a chair and wheels rolling on the floor as Peter gets up and walks over to her. He stops behind her, leaning over her shoulder slightly to get a look at her screen.

“They’re not that bad,” he says then, his breath warm and ruffling through her curls, tickling the side of her neck.

“Really?” she scoffs, tilting her head back so she’s now eye level with the underside of his chin and jaw line. “You’re supposed to be our resident photographer, and you’re telling me those are the photos that are gonna draw more people to our website and lure them into picking up a copy of our magazine from the newsstands?”

His lips twitch and she doesn’t expect it when he looks down at her. Because, _hello! Personal space?_ She’s sure if she had proximity klaxons they’d be going off right about now. Because nothing good ever comes from being this close to Peter Parker. She learnt that last month – though she’ll blame champagne on an empty stomach and an unnerving encounter with her asshole ex-boyfriend for the embarrassingly sentimental drivel that fell from her lips that night.  

She knows if she were to take in a deep breath right now, she’d get a lungful of Peter and his aftershave and it’ll be a smell that’ll likely haunt her forever. She notices idly that he has flawless skin, and rather nice lips and if she were to lean forwards just a little . . . _and oh god, what the hell is she thinking?_

She pushes back in her seat and rolls back as Peter snaps upright and lifts a hand to his nape and awkwardly points at the screen with his other. Apparently, he’s not entirely unaffected either.

“No, no, uh, you’re right,” he stutters, “they’re crap.”

“Think you can go get me some better ones?” she asks, taking a breath and trying to restore the balance to whatever the hell that near-miss of a moment was.

Because she’s not _going there._ She’s not.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Sure.”

“Good,” she stands, walking over towards the coat rack and then throwing him his coat and suit jacket.

“What, _now?_ ” he asks, catching them effortlessly, not even having to adjust his position to deal with the hefty weight.

“No time like the present,” she says, as she grabs her own beanie and pulls it over her head.

“You’re coming, too?”

Which is a very valid question – ideally space would be a good thing right now, especially given the fact her brain can’t be trusted around him. But maybe that overexposure thing will work just as well and cure her of these completely ridiculous notions she’s been having.

And so she says, “yeah. Well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t come back with a hundred photographs of unsightly snowmen and overdone Christmas trees, Parker. I’ll be your DP. That’s totally a thing, right?”

He shakes his head, lips curving into an easy smile. “On a filmset, yeah. But sure, you can be my DP, Jones.”

And for a moment, she almost believes he means something else altogether.

_Almost._

She mentally groans and gives herself a shake.

_Get it together, Jones._

 

)(

 

This is the thing he loves about New York City: there’s no shortage of inspiration.

Trudging in the snow they wander the streets of Manhattan, through Times Square and end up at the Rockefeller ice rink. He takes his photos along the way, and of course, the obligatory one of the huge annual Christmas tree there, and when MJ makes a point of yawning into her gloved hand, he shrugs in defence. “I know it’s cheesy, but I mean, look at it!”

“I’m looking, Parker, and I’m bored.”

He shakes his head at her, and they continue walking.

It’s not a bad way to spend the day _technically working._

They take a detour through Central Park and it’s there that MJ collapses back on one of the benches by the frozen pond and looks up at the sky. There’s a light flurry of snow falling then, and Peter resists the urge to click the shutter on his camera and capture the moment forever. Instead, he takes a mental photograph and tucks it somewhere safe at the back of his mind.

She looks peaceful.

The kind of peaceful he’s not seen on her. Especially not since the night of the _Daily Bugle’s_ 50th anniversary event and whatever went down between her and Harry Osborn.

They’ve not talked about anything that happened – a mutual, unspoken agreement – and he’s not going to be the one to break it no matter how many times he dreams of dark eyes in a dimly lit room, and feels those words vibrate right there against his chest.

_I wish I’d met you first._

“What are you planning to do for Christmas?” he asks clearing his throat.

And just like that the peace dissolves away.

“No plans.”

“What do you mean? No plans?”

“Exactly that, Parker.”

And there’s something in her expression that says _don’t. Don’t go there._

And so, he doesn’t push. Says instead, like an idiot who has no brain-mouth filter, “well, you should come to mine then. Well, my Aunt May’s.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not looking for a pity invite. I’ll be fine. It’s just another day, Peter. Don’t look at me like I’ve just run over your puppy.”

“It’s not a pity invite,” he insists. He lets that statement sit for a minute, before committing to the suggestion now that he’s put it out there. “Actually, you’d be doing me a favour.”

She narrows her gaze. Clearly, not believing him.

“It’s just me and my Aunt,” he says, looking away over at the treeline in the distance. “My uh Uncle, Uncle Ben, he passed away last year . . . _passed away_ ,” he repeats with a scoff and a shake of his head. “He was murdered,” he corrects himself, voice a little stronger.

He doesn’t talk about this, but something about this moment and Michelle Jones makes him feel like he can.

“And well, Aunt May, she uh puts on a brave face for my sake, but I think she still struggles with it. Doesn’t help either that she spends most of her time worrying more about me than she does herself – but then that’s nothing new. Been that way since I was six. Twenty years later and she still worries about me making friends.”

He huffs out a small laugh at that. A tiny fond smile gracing his lips as it always does when he thinks of Aunt May.

“I think that probably says more about me . . . but, uh, anyway. I don’t know . . . I just think it’d make her really happy to meet you . . . so what do you say, Jones? Help a friend out?”

He looks down at her then, and he’s not expecting the intensity of the gaze that meets him when he does.

“She really means a lot to you, huh?” The words are softly spoken – not so much a question, but a statement of understanding.

“She raised me,” he answers simply.

She purses her lips and nods, and he doesn’t see it coming. Not even when she’s bending at the waist and scooping up the snow.

In fact, he barely registers it flying into his face.

“Hey!” he splutters indignantly wiping away the remnants of the snowball that explodes like a powder puff in his face. He tastes melted ice and amusement on his tongue. _“What was that for?”_

There’s a smirk on her lips. “You play dirty, Peter Parker. You know I can’t say no to that.” But there’s no recrimination in her tone, and in fact, her sparkling eyes tell a different story.

He shakes the shock of the moment (and the freezing cold) off, before shrugging innocently. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Buy me a coffee, loser, and it may be.”

 

)(

 

They get back to the office well after lunch break is over.

Harrington eyes them incredulously when they stumble into the office, already standing in his doorway and barking orders at Brown.

“Where have you two been?” he asks, re-directing his attention.

“Capturing the magic of New York at Christmas,” MJ answers him, shrugging off her coat and draping it haphazardly over the back of her chair.

“And why did that need the both of you?”

“Because Parker’s terrible taste couldn’t be trusted.”

Harrington considers this for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough.” He says nothing more, disappearing once more into his office.

“You’ve been out nearly the whole day,” Ned says, and MJ only has to look up and see his face to see he means that in only one way. The way that says _you left me all alone in here for hours, you assholes._

“Sorry man,” Peter says, settling into his seat and wasting no time in connecting his camera to his computer with the USB lead he digs out of his drawer. “But I got you this.”

MJ hides her smile as he throws Ned the paper bag full of gingerbread men he’d bought at the coffee shop. There was something about the gesture, just as they were leaving the shop, coffees downed, and fingers and toes sufficiently warmed up, that melted her cold, cynical Scrooge-like heart.

“Aw thanks dude,” Ned grins at him, wide and beaming.

_Damn, these guys were making her soft._

She shakes the feeling aside and turns her head back to her screen. Seconds later an IM pops up in the corner diverting her attention.

**Peter Parker:** sending photos now

**Peter Parker:** take your pic

**Peter Parker:** :-D

MJ shakes her head and types back:

**(NYP) M. Jones:** hilarious, nerd

**Peter Parker:** :-P check your mail

And sure enough, she gets an onscreen notification from outlook and it’s a ZIP file full of photos. She clicks the icon to download and sits and waits for them to load.

And what she finds herself looking at once they have, are already a hundred times better than the catalogue she previously had to choose from.

Where she’d thought he was taking boring pictures of the same old, snow-covered, postcard perfect landmarks in New York City, he’d actually been taking interesting shots, from unusual angles, with varying focuses she normally wouldn’t have picked.

They’re brilliant and she’s spoilt for choice.

And it’s as she’s clicking through them, mind ticking over as to what she should use and how, that she almost misses it. Clicking on the back button, she goes back to the previous image and stops still.

_It’s her._

She remembers him taking it.

Sitting across from each other in the coffee shop, just as she’d leant down to drink her coffee and she’d looked up over the brim of her cup for a split second, and then _flash._

As far as photos of her go, it’s nice.

She doesn’t know what he’d seen, looking at her in that moment, that had prompted him to take it, but it makes her heart do that scary, fluttery thing, she had sworn to herself she wouldn’t feel again.

Not after Harry.

And so, she quickly clicks the forward button and moves on, and in doing so, she _does_ miss something else.

A familiar, half-shadowed face in the window.

Standing there.

On the outside, looking in.

 

)(

 

Peter had been right.

Aunt May had been ecstatic at the prospect of having another one of his friends over for Christmas dinner.

He’d tried to downplay it as best as he could.

“We’re just colleagues, really.”

“Hmm, right. A colleague who you just invited over for Christmas dinner and _she agreed._ ”

“It’s only because she was gonna spend it alone, otherwise . . . _hey, ow!_ ”

Peter clutches his hand against his chest to avoid getting whacked by Aunt May’s tea towel again, fingers still smarting from where she’d struck him.

“Hands off the cookies, Peter. Your guest isn’t even here yet and you’ve already destroyed half of them.”

He falls back and leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over the sparkly, light-up nose of the Rudolph on his Christmas sweater.

“She’s just . . . _she’s MJ,_ ” he says with a shrug.

And apparently his aunt is a twelve-year-old girl as she wiggles her eyebrows, and teases, “just MJ, huh?”

He sneaks another cookie, and says with his mouth full, spitting crumbs: “you’re the worst.”

Luckily, by the time MJ turns up on their doorstep, Aunt May is on her best behaviour.

When the doorbell first goes, he almost doesn’t believe it’s her. Doesn’t believe that she actually came. He’s been waiting for the apology text all day, but it never came, and it allowed him to hope.

It’s still surreal to think just a few months ago the sum total of their interactions had been an indifferent gaze meeting his friendly smiles, crumpled post-it notes to his face, and if he was really lucky, one-word answers to his unassuming questions. And now here she is, standing there on his aunt’s stoop on Christmas evening, of her own free will. Just that one sentence alone is a miracle. 

He opens the door with a deep breath and grins. “Hey! You made it!”

Predictably she takes one look at his sweater and arches her brow. As far as mockery goes, it’s hardly her best effort. “That is probably the dorkiest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah not yet,” he says with a finger raised – the universal sign for _wait a minute, there’s more . . ._

He presses on Rudolph’s button nose and on command it lights up, flashing red and even starts playing the tune to _Jingle Bells_.

He grins wider.

She shakes her head in return, but there’s a glimmer of a smile on her lips, though it’s still strained with nerves. Because with nine months of being able to do nothing but observe, Peter’s gotten quite good at reading her.

But she learns soon enough that there’s nothing to be nervous about.

Aunt May has a habit of putting everyone at ease, and it’s hard not to love her. He may be biased, but it’s the truth.

And _he_ soon learns, that if anyone has reason to be nervous, _it’s him._

After handing over the bottle of wine she’d brought along with her, Aunt May sequesters her in the kitchen, and all Peter can do is helplessly watch from afar as he sets the table and they gossip in hushed tones.

His ears burn with the feeling they’re talking about him, but he doesn’t mind so much, because it’s nice seeing Aunt May with a smile on her face, and MJ genuinely enjoying herself.

When they finally move to the dining table, and Aunt May forces MJ to sit down, not hearing a word of her helping to bring out the food, she asks him about Ned.

“Leeds not coming tonight?”

“No, he usually pops by in the mornings, and does dinner with his family. Some years we go around, but since . . . well since –”

She reaches out a hand then, connecting with his forearm and squeezes. She doesn’t say anything, but then she doesn’t really need to. The gesture surprises him, and by the look on her face, it’s not something she’d been planning on doing either.

The unexpected moment is broken by Aunt May as she walks into the room with the roast turkey, oblivious to the conversation. “Okay, drum roll please!”

MJ pulls her hand sharply away from him as his aunt sets it down in the centre of the table, and steps back to admire her handiwork.

Peter shakes his head. “You didn’t cook this.”

Aunt May gasps, offended, and MJ laughs.

But he stands firm, and she gives up the jig pretty quickly after that.

“Yeah, no the turkey’s store-bought.”

She turns then to MJ and explains. “I have tried for years, and I can’t get it right, so why go to all the trouble and end up with something inedible, right?”

MJ raises her glass. “Cheers to that. I am all about store-bought Christmas dinners.”

There’s more to that statement, and he shares a quick glance with Aunt May wondering if she caught the melancholy undertones to the words. And, of course, she had. And, of course, she knows not to draw attention to it. And so, she says instead;

“The Brussels sprouts, though? Those are all mine. I think I’ve finally cracked the boiled vegetable.”

Peter snorts, shaking his head. But as they take their seats and settle down and she starts serving up the food, he catches his aunt’s eye and mouths _“thank you.”_

She smiles back at him as she sits down herself and enjoys the fruits of her own labour.

 

)(

 

“Thank you,” MJ says, some time later as she falls back on the couch, her arms coming around her belly after a very filling and satisfying dinner. “It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” May smiles, sitting back in her own armchair, eggnog in hand as Frank Sinatra croons softly in the background.

And there’s something in the way the endearment falls from her lips – it doesn’t feel like a throwaway. Not the way ‘babe’ used to from Harry’s lips, or ‘honey’ does from her mother’s. It feels like she means it, and it must be her full stomach, and the twinkling lights from their modestly sized and decorated Christmas tree, with Peter’s second grade angel sitting on the top, that makes her want to give into the mushy feelings.

She’d changed her mind about coming tonight several times throughout the course of the evening. Although she’d known the invite was genuine, that there’d been no ulterior motive, it had felt too weird, too intimate to turn up at a colleague’s doorstep for Christmas dinner with their family. After all, she and Peter Parker were only really colleagues – nothing more.

And yet, a voice would pipe up throughout the day, every time she’d decided she wasn’t going to show, that _that_ wasn’t strictly true, anymore. Because, _they were friends_ at the very least. And she didn’t have many of those. The thought of disappointing him, disappointing an aunt she’d never met, would unsettle her, churn her stomach, until she’d feel brave again and switch her decision back.

In the end, she’s glad she plucked up the courage to press that doorbell.

It’s been a surprisingly lovely, _comfortable,_ evening.

And Peter’s aunt is wonderful. She sees it now – just where he gets it from.

She’d already known the story of what happened to Peter’s uncle before he’d unexpectedly opened up to her that day in Central Park. The tragic, harrowing incident had been covered by all the local papers. But the tabloids, not one to shy away from all the details, especially ones that made a good story, didn’t skimp on the emotional beats. They talked all about how Benjamin and May Parker had raised their poor, orphaned nephew and lamented how the family had suffered yet another great loss from senseless violence running rampant like a plague in the city.  

She knows all this, but she’d read it all with a detached, impersonal interest. She hadn’t really known Peter then. But it isn’t until tonight, hearing the stories of Peter’s childhood with warmth and affection imbuing Aunt May’s every word despite their trauma, that it hits her – just the kind of hell they’ve been through. She finds herself wondering, not for the first time, how so much loss, could still allow for such kind hearts to grow.

She thinks she has a whole new appreciation for Peter Parker and just for tonight, in the spirit of the holiday season, she thinks she’ll let that feeling breathe.

“Okay presents,” May announces then suddenly. It catches her off-guard – lost as she was in her thoughts and the postprandial haze that’s hit her quite hard.

“I thought you would have done presents, already?”

“We were waiting for you.” It’s Peter who answers her.

And well, _shit_. Apart from the bottle of wine she’d brought along with her, MJ hadn’t got them any presents.

“Relax,” May says. Sensing her panic, she reaches forward to squeeze her knee. “Your company’s been more than enough, and they’re only small things anyway.”

And just to prove her point she picks up the smallest package off the carpet and hands it over to her.

Tentatively, MJ opens it up. It’s soft under her finger tips, and she guesses right when she thinks it’s a piece of clothing.

She unravels the t-shirt in her hands – it’s a basic, round-neck, white tee, with the words ‘FEMINIST AF’ written across the front.

She eyes Peter from across the room, but he’s making a point of deliberately avoiding her gaze. Because clearly, he’s said _something_ about her to Aunt May before now.

“I love it, thank you,” she says, reaching forwards to hug her, the instinct coming surprisingly easy.

“Jones?” Peter speaks up. She looks back at him as she pulls away from Aunt May. _“Catch.”_

She manages to grab it before it hits her in the face, and she scowls back at him. “Jeez, I wonder what this could be?”

He grins.

Because there isn’t really a way to wrap a ball without giving it away. And naturally, the wrapping is terribly done, but given the fact it’s spherical i.e. the absolute hellish of shapes to wrap, she gives him a pass.

“A basketball, Parker? What am I gonna do with it?”

“Gee, I don’t know? Put that vicious arm of yours to good use and shoot some hoops maybe instead of flinging paper missiles at us every day?”

“I’m terrible at sports, remember?”

“I’ll teach you.”

“Basketball?” she asks, incredulous.

And it’s just like Peter not to take offence at just what she’s implying.

“Okay, okay, so I might be vertically challenged, but I’ve got good aim.”

She shakes her head at him, but manages an earnest, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says softly, holding her gaze.

May, thankfully, interrupts what’s fast becoming _another moment_ by throwing a wrapped present at Peter with an excited “your turn!”

And with it, the attention shifts from off her, and she can breathe.

In.

_And out._

 

)(

 

The evening turns out better than he could have expected.

He feels like MJ genuinely enjoyed herself, and when she agrees to stay behind after presents and watch a few Christmas movie classics with them – a Parker family tradition – he’s surprised, but no less happy at the idea.

He feels like something’s changed tonight.

Between them.

But that’s not entirely true either. Things feel like they’ve been changing for a while now.

And as he settles down on the couch beside her, the whole of his left side burning where she sits pressed against him, he starts to get an inkling of what it’s all about.

From his end, at least.

Because they’ve had moments. Several of them.

And he’s always put it down to his imagination, or fluke, or has shoved it down the back of his mind and refused to call it denial, because there wasn’t anything _to deny._

But damn it to hell and back, _Ned was right._

_He likes her._

Like _likes_ her.

And oh man, is he in so much trouble.

Aunt May holds up two DVDs (because she’s still old-school like that) – _It’s a Wonderful Life_ in one hand, and _Elf_ in the other. And one could not be any more unlike the other, and he should be laughing at the dichotomy but he’s still in a state of frozen terror over his very recent realisation to react.

MJ points from beside him and he doesn’t even know which one it is she’s chosen as Aunt May nods her head approvingly. “Good choice.”

It’s only when she goes to switch the screen from the TV to the DVD player, that he’s shaken out of his self-inflicted stupor.

“Hang on, wait,” he manages to say. “Go back a second. What was that?”

Aunt May dutifully switches back to the news channel, and Peter finds himself staring at a bus dangling precariously over the edge of Manhattan Bridge. He barely hears the news anchor as he reports on how the bus had careened into the side of the bridge just moments ago; bystanders reporting the driver had swerved to avoid hitting a _strange flying object_ that had appeared out of nowhere and disappeared seconds later.

“Holy shit,” MJ says, leaning forwards towards the screen.

He finds himself standing instinctively, fingers clenched into his sides, and the overwhelming urge to go and help flooding through him.

“Parker?” She frowns up at him. “You okay?”

“Um yeah. It’s just . . . I just remembered. The um . . . _the cat_.”

Aunt May looks at him like he’s an idiot, because she knows _exactly_ what’s running through his mind.

“You have a cat?” MJ asks.

“No, my, uh neighbours’ cat. They're uh away for the holidays and I promised to feed it, and I . . . forgot. I should um, go do that. Now.”

_“Peter!_ That’s terrible of you! _”_ Aunt May admonishes, her acting quite brilliant in fact, and man he loves her for it. He knows how she feels about this whole Spider-Man thing, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t on his side. _Always._ “Go! Go now. I’ll give MJ a lift home once we’re done with our movie.”

He presses a grateful kiss to May’s forehead and hovers awkwardly in front of MJ, before just settling for a freakin’ wave.

_In her face._

He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

But he doesn’t have time to dwell on his utter lameness, because he has people to save.

And with that, he’s practically running out the door.

 

-

 

By the time he gets to Manhattan Bridge, it’s pure carnage.

The cars are jammed on the road, people standing outside of their vehicles in various states of shock and horror. But it’s the bus that draws his attention – teetering on the edge, the metal scraping with every breath and fraction of movement inside, held in balance by fate and physics.

Spider-Man wastes no time, swinging in from behind, and people gasp and point and a chorus of _“look! It’s Spider-Man”_ hums around him.

He shoots his webbing to the back of the bus, pulls away the back screen and tries to anchor it as best he can, before yelling at the people inside to slowly make their way out. The people on the ground cotton on fast and organise themselves in a way to help shepherd the passengers safely out.

But, of course, nothing’s ever as simple as that.

“My little boy! Yusuf! Yusuf, he’s stuck at the front of the bus! I couldn’t get to him!” a woman, with a nasty gash on the side of her forehead tells him panicked and clutching at his forearm. “Help him, please! You’ve got to help him! Please!”

“It’s okay, ma’am. I’ll get him out, don’t worry,” he tries to reassure her over the deafening chaos around them as he gently extricates himself from her desperate grip and hands her over to one of the bystanders. Once she’s clear, Peter slowly climbs into the back of the bus; the metal creaking with the shifts in weight. He prays the webbing will hold.

He spots the boy at the back; little fingers gripping the metal legs of the seat as he lies prone on the bus floor. Wide, terrified eyes peer up at him. He can’t be more than eight years old. 

“Come on, buddy,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm and even as he stretches out a hand. “Just reach out and I’ll grab you, I promise.”

He shakes his head, tears streaming silently from his eyes.

“You can do it,” he says. “I’ve heard all about how brave you are? Your name’s Yusuf, right?”

The boy nods.

“Yusuf, you’re the bravest boy I’ve ever met. And I’ve met _a lot_ of people.”

“Really?” The voice is a quiet tremble, but he can hear it over the background commotion and the straining metal framework of the bus.

“Yes, really. Just crawl forwards like I know you can, and we’ll get out of here, _together,_ okay?”

And thankfully, carefully, the boy starts to move, edging from behind the seats and down the centre aisle slowly.

“That’s it. Come on,” he urges. “Come on, come on. You can do this.”

But Peter can feel it: the shift in air pressure, the tipping of balance with the moving centre of gravity. The sudden massive whine and screech as the bus slips further over the edge is deafening, and he sees rather than hears the little boy’s scream that follows.

It’s instinct he acts on as he fires web after web and heaves with everything he has.

It’s a surreal moment, watching the bus hurtle three hundred and thirty feet into the East River. And for that single heart-stopping second, it’s nothing but black until he opens the eyes he’d squeezed shut and there, at the end of his webbing, _is the little boy_.

Alive and miraculously unharmed.

The stunned gasp as everyone held their breaths turns into a roar of cheers and chants of “Spider-Man! Spider-Man!”

_“Aww, how adorable, you and your fan club, I presume?”_

The cheering ceases abruptly, and Spider-Man looks up to see a masked man in a green, armoured suit, balancing effortlessly on a metal hoverboard that if he had the time to pore over in detail, would realise was heavily weaponised. Dark eyes glitter from behind the disguise, lips twisted up into an unearthly smile. But all of these things only vaguely register with him, because it’s the young woman he’s got in a stranglehold, dangling over the edge of the bridge, screaming, that has his attention.

“So, the itty-bitty spider’s come out to play, huh?” the demon drawls. And Peter senses what’s coming before he says it. “Well, here, _catch!”_

He lets go of the woman and then she’s falling.

It’s a split second of time, but _enough_ , as Peter pulls the young boy up with one hand, and he’s grateful for the dozens of hands that are waiting there on the bridge to catch him, before he dives right over the edge.

He catches her mere metres from the water line, feels the bounce of the webbing when he hits his lowest point and uses the momentum to swing back up.

Once he’s dropped her safely back on the ground, Peter wastes no time in scanning the gathering crowd and the skies for the green-suited demon.

But he’s gone

Nowhere to be seen. Leaving no trace, no clue.

Just chaos and destruction in his wake.

 

)(

 

Back in Queens, MJ and May watch it all unfold on their TV screen. Christmas movie abandoned and forgotten about.

MJ can only watch with bated breath as Spider-Man carries out the daring rescue.

And it’s breath-taking and awe-inspiring, and May is trembling beside her, and she doesn’t think too much of it. Not then. Because just like all the news outlets, all she can really think about is the man in the green mask.

_Who is he?_

A chill runs down her spine, and that unsettled, sick feeling in her gut doesn’t disappear for a long while after.

Whoever he is, this she knows for sure.

The city’s not seen the last of him.

He’ll be back.

 

))((

 


	5. January 2028; Issue No. 105

                             

                                            

 

“How is it the start of a new year already?”

Ned’s words drift over to him from across his desk – easily audible in between the sound of his chair squeaking as he constantly fidgets and the background symphony of clacking keys and mouse clicks as his fellow colleagues get on with their assigned articles. This morning’s meeting had been short and sweet. The overwhelming message being: New Year. New _NY Pulse._ i.e. _tick tock_. Jameson’s threat of cutting the magazine still loomed large, and in the week after the Christmas Day Manhattan Bridge incident, saving their magazine had been, understandably, the furthest thought from anyone’s mind.

It had been all about the _Green Goblin._

It was a name coined by Ned himself. Off the cuff, and quite by accident. Harrington had overheard it as he’d walked past, clapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed, _“that’s brilliant!”_ , and then turned to Peter and had ordered, _“Parker? Write it.”_

And so he had.

The only problem was – and he didn’t realise until after Harrington had read his first draft and peered at him from over the rim of his glasses with something akin to suspicion – that writing objectively when you’ve had not so much a front row seat to the news, _but actually lived it_ , is incredibly hard.

_“This is all very detailed, Parker,”_ he’d said, leaning back in his chair. The Manhattan skyline behind him had been dark with only the lights from the skyscrapers and streets below glittering to keep the city alive. Funny though, how it also smothered the night sky, extinguishing starlight at the same time. _“We deal with the truth, not fiction – though I give you props for your imagination.”_

He’d handed the paper copy back, and Peter had set to work revising it. He’d worked late into the night to finish the article and, once satisfied, upload it online. Although, he’d tried to stick to what the public had seen from the news footage, some of his experience as Spider-Man must have slipped into the prose, and it had resonated with the public in a way none of them had expected.

Their online traffic figures doubled overnight.

Their comments sections, for the first time in months, was hitting the high-end of triple figures.

Conspiracy theories that _NY Pulse_ had the inside track on Spider-Man were abound. Given his one and only interview had been with them in the first place, it wasn’t an illogical conclusion to come to. There was credibility to the argument. There was truth to it, not that they knew it, but it made Peter nervous all the same.

On top of that, the name _Green Goblin_ had stuck.

Other newspapers, even cable news channels, were using it.

_“Should’ve got it trade-marked,”_ Ned had grumbled the following morning.

So, inadvertently, the whole Christmas Day Manhattan Bridge madness had actually helped boost _NY Pulse._ But as Harrington had reminded them in the meeting, this current wave of interest wouldn’t last, and they needed to find a way to keep it going.

Peter figures his current article on the year-on-year drop in state funding for public education isn’t likely to drum up as much excitement. Not when he’s falling asleep typing it himself. He thinks MJ’s piece is equally as stimulating as she smothers a yawn and distractedly answers Ned’s most likely rhetorical question.

“Easy. The Earth took three-hundred and sixty-five days to orbit the sun since you last asked that question.”

“I didn’t . . . no, wait . . .” Ned says, tilting his head back to look up at the off-white ceiling, sifting through his memories of January 2027, until he finds the incriminating one, and concedes, _“I totally did.”_

MJ’s face remains expressionless as she continues to stare at her screen, glassy-eyed.

Peter takes the opportunity to run his eyes over her.

_Not_ creepily, okay.

Just, _contemplative._

Because it’s only now that the buzz around his encounter with the Green Goblin has started to dull down that he’s hit with those feelings he’d conveniently shoved to the background on Christmas Day.

_He likes her._

Which is the pubescent version of saying he’s _attracted to her_ and wouldn’t be averse to going on a date. If he knew _how_ to date that is.

But then he thinks that’s oversimplifying it.

Because it’s not just an attraction.

It’s something more.

Which is just as _terrible._

Because he knows she doesn’t see him that way. Nearly ten months of working together, and needing a work crisis to thaw the ice, means he knows that very well. Also, stack him side-by-side with Harry Osborn and anyone with eyes can tell, he’s not her type.

To be fair – she’s not his either.

Not that he knows his type. One serious girlfriend and a high-school crush doesn’t an expert make.

So, how the hell had this happened?

Because apparently, Peter Parker, is an idiot and a glutton for punishment.

MJ hasn’t mentioned Christmas evening to him since. Well, that is apart from asking after Aunt May with genuine interest (which really doesn’t help his burgeoning feelings), as well as asking after his non-existent neighbour’s non-existent cat – always with a twinkle in her eyes as if to suggest she’d seen through that terrible excuse and had known he was lying. But he’s not brave enough to call her on it. And if she suspects anything, she’s keeping her lips just as sealed.

And then there’s also that _other thing_ , too.

That other thing where she’s taken to _waving_ in his face every time she leaves the room.

A mortifying reminder of his complete and utter fail of an exit that night.

The over-dramatic sixteen-year-old in him who’d call this a crush wants to die of embarrassment.

The equally dramatic twenty-six-year old man sitting here staring at her, trying to convince himself it’s just admiration, wants to fucking punch himself in the face.

She’s right.

He is a loser.

“This is the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever written,” she says suddenly, the words half muttered into her palm as she rests her chin on it, elbow sliding slowly off the pile of papers on her desk. She follows it up with a groan as she falls back in her chair.

“Oh I don’t know,” Ned starts up in a manner that suggests he’s got a death wish, “I think your piece on the _Daily Bugle_ the month before last probably wins that one.”

To Peter’s surprise, it doesn’t earn him a paper projectile to the head, or even a raised middle finger. No, it gets him a snort, and a twitch of the lips. “Sadly true, Leeds.”

And Ned just goes right back to typing about the newest iPhone – he forgets what version they’re up to now, it’s hard to keep up since it feels like there’s a new one out every three months these days – and MJ straightens her back, eyebrows furrowed as she glares at the screen and returns her attention to her own article.

It’s twenty minutes of blank-screen staring later when MJ swivels in her chair and faces him side-on. Of course, he notices, because he’s been doing his own version of a shitty mind-bending hypnosis trick with the blinking cursor at the end of the _one whole sentence_ he’s managed to type, rather than actually working this entire time.

Head in palm, he turns slightly to look back at her.

She’s got this weird expression on her face. Almost like she’s trying to solve some obscure puzzle, and that puzzle is _him_. At least that’s what it feels like, and he can feel the nerves start to come alive, jittery under his skin.

Still, he manages a pretty impressive (for him), cool and aloof, “what are you staring at Jones?”

Which, yeah, okay he’s one to talk since he’s spent his entire morning doing just that to her, but whatever. That’s not the point, the point is –

_“Spider-Man.”_

Huh.

What?

_Shit._

_She’s staring at_ who _now?_

Utter, blinding panic builds in his gut, clawing its way up his throat, and he can feel Ned’s bewildered, wide-eyed gaze jumping from MJ to him and back again.

“Um, sorry, what – what do you –” he stops and clears his throat, and prays his voice doesn’t crack as he asks, _“Spider-Man?”_

If she notices the fact his brain is ten seconds away from short-circuiting, she’s impossibly unperturbed about it.

“Yep,” she answers, and he holds his breath, _“That’s_ what we need to be writing about. Or more like _who._ ”

Oh.

_Oh, thank God._ For one terrifying moment, he’d thought she’d figured out his secret identity, and Ned had clearly thought it too, as he visibly wilts with the relief in front of him.

“Think about it,” she continues, leaning forward, curls falling into her face, eyes alight as ideas fly behind them at warp speed. “Our biggest selling issue was your interview with the guy. And now, this . . .” she turns around and starts clicking on her mouse and Peter doesn’t dare turn around and face Ned, who is burning holes into the side of his head while he tries to telepathically freak out alongside him. But there’s only a two-second window anyway, because then she’s turning her computer screen to face them, and even with the distance across the room, the image is crystal clear and perfectly recognisable. “Your piece on Spider-Man and the Green Goblin.

“They both have one thing in common.”

_Yeah, written by me, about me._ But Peter, wisely, doesn’t say that and opts to keep his mouth clamped shut, instead.

“The comments are overwhelmingly in favour of Spider-Man,” she explains. “The public love him. They’re eating this shit up. I mean, sure there are people dying in practically every continent in the world from hunger or war. And South America’s lost another five-percent of their total rain-forest density in the last twelve months alone. Another four species of birds have gone extinct in that same period of time. But hey? Who cares, right? Not when _this_ is what they want to know more about . . .”

She certainly doesn’t seem so enthralled at the idea but _small steps._

He gets it.

Save the magazine _first_ , and then write the stories they _want_ to tell.

And so, it’s not hard to guess just what it is she’s going to say next.

_“You need to get him to agree to do another interview with us.”_

Ah shit.

He’d known, when he’d decided to go ahead and set up the elaborate ruse of interviewing and photographing himself, that he’d be opening up a whole can of worms. But he’d just gotten so sick of all the slandering lies in the newspapers, the _Daily Bugle_ being the worst culprit, that it had actually felt good to use one of Jameson’s own platforms to tell his side.

Jameson had hated it.

Fortunately, the public hadn’t.

And looking back at MJ now, the realisation hits that maybe there is no other option.

Nowhere else to hide.

But before he can even open his mouth to agree, Ned’s swooping in.

“What about all the people he’s saved?”

“What about them?” MJ asks, spinning a fraction on the chair to face him.

“Maybe you should speak to them, instead? I mean, think about it. If you keep putting Spider-Man in the limelight, give him an actual voice in the media, the _more real_ he becomes. I dunno, I just think super-heroes work a lot better if you give them an air of mystery.”

And _damn_ , Peter thinks, mentally high-fiving his best friend for the mother of all saves, because that’s quite the argument and it couldn’t have been better timed.

Even MJ’s finding it hard to argue as she creases her brow – thinking face firmly on.

She sits there staring at him for what feels like an age. Ned shoots him a nervous look across his desk. Peter shifts in his chair, and he swears he can hear the ticking second hand of the wall clock at the far end of the office space, above the noise of typing, the chatter of his colleagues, and the ringing phone in reception.

MJ says nothing more.

Nope.

She just stands up and starts heading in the direction of Harrington’s office.

“Wait. Where are you going?” Ned calls out.

For a moment, Peter thinks she’s gonna ignore them. But she doesn’t.

“Where d’you think? I’m gonna pitch your idea to Harrington. You coming?”

Ned’s face is the perfect picture of shock. Because it’s a sad fact that Ned Leeds often doesn’t get the credit he deserves at _NY Pulse_.

He looks over at him, and Peter can read that expression perfectly.

_Dude? Is this okay?_ it’s asking.

Peter smiles and tilts his head in MJ’s direction. The message clear: _go for it._

Ned doesn’t waste any time. He rushes after her, and just before they disappear into Harrington’s office, MJ turns to look back at him.

And . . . _waves._

The smirk on her face is pure evil.

He drops his head to his desk and groans.

_Goddamn wave._

He's never waving at  _anyone._

Ever.

Again.

 

 

)(

 

Unsurprisingly, Harrington loves the idea.

Of course, he does.

It’s a great idea. Just the kind of feel-good column that’ll keep people coming back for more. Plus, it has the added benefit of pissing Jameson off – given the _Daily Bugle’s_ very obvious, anti-Spider-Man stance, it sure makes for an intriguing story in itself. Definitely gives _NY Pulse_ the edge – as the little rebelling publication _who could_.

Peter’s lack of enthusiasm for the piece, however, is a head-scratcher.

She would have thought he’d love the idea. He of the exclusive with said superhero fame - she would have thought he would have leapt at the idea. A cynical, hateful part of her wonders if it’s not jealousy – after all, Spider-Man almost seems to be his muse and his alone. But the part of her that _knows_ Peter Parker – after months of observing (entirely from afar and objectively) and then after months of actually getting to know him – knows he couldn’t be. He just doesn’t have it hard-wired into him. Not the guy that brings her coffee every morning, and always adds a please and thank you and a big goofy grin to the words when he asks Betty Brant, Harrington’s PA and _NY Pulse’s_ receptionist, to do anything – even something as simple as making copies (of copies). Not the same guy who takes time out of his busy work week to go visit his aunt; who invited her around for Christmas with no expectation and no strings attached – and she’d looked hard for them, she had.

No.

Peter Parker is a good guy.

As much as she’s tried to find fault in him – she can’t. And Christmas made that abundantly clear.

_Fuck._

Going to Christmas dinner had been a terrible mistake.

A complete lapse in judgement.

She’d been weak-willed; the lure of a warm seasonal evening, in the presence of the purest representation of familial love and laughter had been enough for her to fall foul of something she swore to herself she wouldn’t do.

Get attached.

To him.

_Attached_ isn’t even the right word. It’s downright puny to what’s been growing inside her chest these last few months. If it was just an attraction – and oh boy is there an attraction – she could have shrugged it off. Hey, she’s a red-blooded woman and of course she’s noticed the stretch of his shirts and those sinewy forearms every time he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves. And then put that together with that ridiculous smile that makes her want to punch something – or fucking kiss him consequences be damned – she’d have to be made of stone not to be moved.

And contrary to popular belief, MJ is not made of stone.

Sometimes she wonders if he feels the same. Because there’s something in his gaze now and then that makes her do something dumb, like catch her breath against her will and let her mind wander. But then, she figures _nah._ That’s just Peter Parker – overly friendly to everyone whether they deserve it or not.

And no sooner does she start wondering over this crap, does she take her imaginary frying pan and mentally clip herself over the head with it.

Because she’s not doing this to herself.

Not again.

And it’s as that thought settles heavily in her mind, that she’s faced with _exactly why._

It’s well past eight in the evening when she steps into the elevator. Carried away with their newest column, she hadn’t even noticed the time, or the slow exodus of people leaving for home over the last few hours.

She’s too busy looking down at her cell, reading the text from Liz telling her not to bother with takeout as she’s already made dinner, to notice him standing there.

It’s not until he clears his throat that she looks up.

She’s getting quite skilled at not-reacting, and she manages to keep her face entirely neutral as she takes in the unexpected appearance of Harry Osborn. He’s leaning casually back in the corner, arms splayed along the rails, hands curled around them as his index finger strikes a repetitive beat.

MJ tries to shake away the phantom feeling of those fingers on her cheek, thumb pressing into her neck, and meets his smirking gaze with her own cool one.

She says nothing, looks back instead at the closing elevator doors and not for the first time wishes _NY Pulse_ wasn’t so damn high up.

“I see we’re being civil,” he speaks up. “Not even a hello, MJ. Wow.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I just had a meeting with Jameson. We’ve got some big plans for Jameson, Inc.”

“Did I ask?” MJ says through gritted teeth, though she doesn’t look up at him.

“Just making polite conversation. You never were very good at that. Always had to carry you through dinner parties.”

She tries not to bristle at the dig.

“Speaking of. How was your Christmas?”

“None of your business.”

“Lots of people spend their Christmas alone, nothing to be ashamed of.”

She knows he’s needling her to get a rise, and she should really know better but she’s snapping out an “I wasn’t alone” before she can stop herself.

“Oh? So, homeless shelter was it? You always were a secret bleeding heart under that hard as nails exterior. I guess that’s something. Glad to hear you weren’t lonely. And I do really mean that, MJ. Whatever’s happened between us, I do still care about you.”

She scoffs, shaking her head at his bullshit as she spins around to face him. He’s still standing there, in that same position, expressionless and as empty as his words. She doesn’t know why she never spotted how fucking petty he is sooner.

She doesn’t owe him anything.

She doesn’t need to say anything.

And yet, she opens her mouth and throws petty right back in his face.

“Actually, I spent Christmas with Peter Parker. And it was probably the best Christmas I’ve ever had, thanks for asking.”

And it’s not a lie, but she doesn’t hate it that he takes it for an exaggeration as he shakes his head and laughs. Because, clearly, nothing could be better than Christmas dinner at the Osborn’s mansion with a bare minimum five-course dinner surrounded by their thousand-dollar decorations and fifty-feet tall Christmas tree.

“Peter Parker and his aunt in Queens. Sounds _lovely._ ” The words are dripping in mockery and condescension and it pisses her off.

_“It was.”_

And there must have been something in those two words and the blaze in her eyes that she couldn’t hide that he catches because his expression morphs then. All amusement disappearing as he steps forward and straightens to his full height above her.

“Spending an awful lot of time with Parker these days, aren’t you?”

She shakes her head. “So what if I am? What I do with my time is none of your concern, Harry. Not that it ever was.”

“Are you _dating_ him?”

And the question is spoken with such distaste and barely restrained horror. She can feel the tension radiating off him in the small, enclosed space and she should have pegged it for anger but in the haze of her own, she doesn’t recognise it as she prods the green-eyed monster one last time.

“Jealous?” she asks with a raised brow and a smirk.

He doesn’t get a chance to retort.

The doors finally ping open on the ground floor and she walks away without a backward glance and only takes in a gulp of air when the Goodman Building is a speck in the far distance.

 

)(

 

The outpouring of love for Spider-Man that inundates _NY Pulse’s_ inbox over the next week is unexpected.

And he doesn’t know how to feel with it.

Because it’s weird.

He doesn’t do what he does for the gratitude.

He does it because it’s the right thing to do – he’s been given a gift, and he thinks he’d be eaten up by guilt if he sat idly by and wasted it.

Of course, the thank yous and the smiles are a nice added benefit, but to see it in writing just how his actions, however big (fire rescue in Brooklyn last November) or small (directions to the nearest subway station in April) impacted their lives is _humbling._ Ranging from actual lives saved, to being the difference between someone getting to their interview on time and getting the job that’s kept them off the breadline, all by simply stopping and helping out with a few spoken directions and a pointed finger, is mind-boggling.

And the public are eating it up.

The twice weekly column has substantially increased their online traffic, and best of all, they’re sustaining it, as Harrington announces to them during this week’s meeting.

It’s a drizzly January morning. The snow piled curb side is melting into sludge, and the roads are worn down to patches of black ice. There’s another snowstorm heading their way by the end of the week, so the probability of the roads completely clearing are slim to none. The freezing weather and gloomy skies have left the denizens of NYC with ice in their hearts and sharp smiles, and so it makes sense that their search for a little bit of warmth is leading them to the sappy, heart-warming tales MJ’s spinning for them.

“I think we’re onto a winner here,” Harrington beams, glasses sliding down his nose. “Good job Leeds. Jones.”

Ned, sitting beside him around the conference room table, grins bashfully, and shrugs. “It’s nothing. Really. It was just an idea.”

“A _great_ one,” Harrington says to that before turning his head to look at each and every one of them. “And we need more of them, guys. We’re heading in the right direction, but we can’t lose this momentum.”

There are nodding heads all around him.

“So, if anyone comes up with anything they think will add to our numbers, please come and see me. Alright then,” he continues, rubbing his hands together, “let’s start with you Moon, tell me what’s happening this month’s advertisers . . .”

Peter stops listening at this point, his attention shifting instead to the person across from him as it often does.

MJ’s scribbling away in her notebook again. But he knows for a fact she’s not making notes about the half page _Evian’s_ taken out for February’s print issue, not with the way she scratches the nib of her pen back and forth. She’s doodling, as she usually does. He’s never seen any of her drawings, but he’s curious as to what has her biting down on her lower lip in the way that she is. She’s seemed a little distracted, a little stressed these last few weeks, but not right now. She’s in her element and it suits her. She must suddenly feel his gaze on her, as she glances up at him then, catching him in the act of unabashedly staring.

He would blush pink in embarrassment, but it’s MJ, surprisingly, who quickly drops her pen and shuts her notepad, and averts her gaze – almost as if _she’s_ the one who’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

_Interesting._

He’s been meaning to ask her about her doodling for months now.

Maybe, one of these days he finally will.

The rest of the meeting drags on, and when Harrington eventually dismisses them MJ’s already halfway out the door.

“Hey Jones!” He jogs to catch up to her. “Where you off to in a hurry?”

“Interview for the Spidey column.”

He frowns. “Another one? You just had one yesterday?”

She shrugs. “What can I say? He has _a lot_ of adoring fans.”

“And you’re one of them, aren’t you, Michelle?” It’s Flash who makes the suggestion, with wiggling eyebrows and a smirk as he passes by them standing there in the corridor.

“What can I say, Eugene,” she retorts with a fake flutter of her eyelashes, and an affected voice, hand resting over her heart. “He’s my hero!”

Flash flips her the bird and keeps on walking, disappearing as he turns the corner at the end of the hallway.

Once he’s gone, she drops her hand, and drops the act. She turns on him then. “Do you know for every five fangirling letters I get over Spider-Man, I get one that calls him out for a complete disregard for public and private property, and blatant flouting of state traffic and trespassing laws?”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting _that_ from her, but then MJ loves her curve-balls.

“What are you saying?” he asks, with a nervous flutter, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Just saying, I’m a bit tired of writing the same gooey crap, all day, every day. And I think eventually the public are gonna tire of reading it.”

“So, you’re saying you’re not a fan? Even though he saved you?”

“Should I be head over heels in love with him like most of the city just because he chose to do what any decent human being should have done in that situation?”

“I didn’t say that.” He doesn’t mean to come across defensive, and it’s only as she eyes him, a careful, thoughtful expression on her face that he realises his mistake.

“Interesting you care so much about what I think of our web-slinging friend, Parker. Though, I guess you’re his biggest fan, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m not,” he stammers. “I’m not. A fan. That is.”

“Really?” She steps up to him, and he has to force away the urge to gulp.

“I mean,” he shrugs. _“He’s alright.”_

Her eyes rove over his face, before they fall to his lips and then she’s smirking. “I’m just messing with you, Parker. I’m totally a fan.”

She’s stepping away, and Peter exhales with the distance.

She starts walking backwards away from him, and it isn’t until she’s at the end of the corridor that she calls out one last time.

“But he should definitely look into the accidental vandalism thing. Pretty sure he’s racking up some hefty legal bills there.”

He shakes his head, a smile tilting his lips. “Right. Well, if I see him, I’ll be sure to let him know.”

That gets him a two-fingered salute just before she disappears.

_“You do that and tell him I said ‘hey’.”_

 

)(

 

January continues to trundle on at a middling pace.

MJ spends most of her days working or sleeping, or sleeping while working, because damn if the additional Spidey column doesn’t keep her busy.

She hadn’t been lying that day when she’d spoken to Peter about the rising emergence of disgruntled New Yorkers filtering through the fan mail. Her arguments about the expectations of a decent human being and that of a superhero and the blurred line between the two, although born more from the need to be a contrary asshole, weren’t exactly inaccurate.

Peter’s reaction, though. To even a possible chink in Spider-Man’s suit? That had been interesting.

Part of her thinks he probably has a sense of loyalty – after all New York’s superhero did give him his first hit article for _NY Pulse_. But part of her wonders if there’s not more to it. Peter’s a terrible liar, and it’s not that she hasn’t noticed the way he blushes slightly any time she reads out a doting letter in a mocking tone. Although she thinks that may be just because he’s not comfortable with the particular vivid attentions of much older women (and men) being so freely, and unashamedly, given for public consumption.

But call it intuition, a sixth sense, MJ figures there’s more to it – she just hasn’t pinned down exactly what. She has her ideas – outlandish, ridiculous – but not one she wants to expend all her energy proving or disproving just yet.

It’s the last Thursday of the month when New York is hit by yet another snowstorm.

It comes a whole week later than projected.

The blizzard gets progressively heavier as the day goes on, and staff numbers dwindle in attempts to get home before they become trapped in the office and the roads turn into impossible nightmares to navigate. But MJ? Well. She gets a perverse sense of joy in trying to conquer the icy weather and is adamant she’ll leave only when she’s ready.

Ned sends her a worried glance as he wraps his own scarf around his neck twice and the clock on the wall strikes 4pm. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay getting home?”

“Ask me one more time, and your beloved Lego R2-D2 sitting on your desk there will be smashed back to its rudimentary four-hundred- and sixty-piece state.”

He looks back at her dumbstruck and amazed. “How do you know that?”

_“Oh my god! Dude! Look what I’ve got! Get this! It’s four-hundred-and sixty pieces! Isn’t that rad?!”_

“Okay Jones, a) I don’t sound like that; b) I’ve never used the word ‘rad’ before in my life; and c) I think it says more about you than me that you actually even remember that conversation.”

She raises her brow, a small smile playing on her lips. “Wow. Shots fired, Leeds. I like it. Good for you.”

Ned shakes his head, embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Okay, look. Fine, whatever. I’m going. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if you end up having to camp out here for the next week because you got snowed in.”

She waves at his retreating back, and it’s once he’s gone that she looks around and realises she’s _alone._

Everyone else has already gone. Peter included. He’d spent the day interviewing at the homeless centre downtown and hadn’t returned to the office after. The place is eerie with no one here. She knows, realistically, that there are others in the building, in the other offices on other floors, that she’s not _completely_ alone, but _NY Pulse_ is a veritable ghost town and it makes her a little nervy.

She lasts just about an hour. It’s as the automatic, motion-sensitive lights start to flicker off, casting shadows around the large space; and the skies darken another two shades with the thickening flurry of snow outside that she finally packs it in.

Wrapped tight in her coat, scarf and hat, she foregoes the elevator (it’s the middle of a snowstorm – she’s not a complete idiot) and makes her way down twenty-three flights of stairs.

Even Bill’s noticeably absent from his desk when she gets to the ground floor foyer. If he had been sitting there, she knows he would have shaken his head at her and told her to _“be careful out there, Miss Jones.”_

She takes the phantom advice, treading carefully once her boots hit the snow outside the building. She steps where there’s still fresh snow, and it crunches under her feet. Her face feels like it’s turning into an icicle, puffs of white blowing out of her nose and lips with her every breath. The night sky is that strange dusky colour after snowfall, and the streets are just as empty as it had been inside. Most people being sensible and not stubborn fucks like her.

It's weird though.

There’s something about the city like this that makes her feel at peace.

It’s inexplicable.

And ridiculous.

Because this is New York City and there’s always trouble lurking around the corner.

Which she is rudely reminded of when she turns the corner of 48th and 5th.

There’s the sudden crash of glass as the windows of Matheson & Sons – Antiques and Jewellers – across the road from her, shatters. She comes to a stand-still and it barely registers that the thing that comes flying out of the broken glass is the one and only Spider-Man.

He lands with roll in the middle of the road, but springs back up onto his feet effortlessly like he hadn’t just been thrown out of a window. Once up, he charges forward, wrists outstretched, shooting his webbing at the assholes who had clearly decided to hit up the store, taking advantage of the shitty weather, abandoned roads and lack of witnesses. _The opportunistic bastards._

The only problem with the whole set-up, is the fact it’s four-on-one, and she’s pretty sure Spider-Man doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head or he would have noticed the asshole with the gun behind him.

As it is, he doesn’t.

“Look out!” she screams – the words torn from her throat, above the noise of the blaring store alarm.

It’s a split second of time as he turns around towards her. And it all happens in slow motion. His masked gaze catches hers in frozen surprise and then he’s stumbling back with the impact of the bullet he should have easily dodged.

The armed robbers make a run for it. Slow though they are in the snow, they have nothing to worry about as a van comes skidding around the corner, perfectly timed. The doors fling open and they jump in, disappearing into the night with a screech of tyres.

But MJ’s eyes are glued to Spider-Man, leaning back motionless against the metal, graffitied shutters of the old hardware store next to the jewellers.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she curses under her breath as she runs across the road, the soles of her boots, even with grips, doing little to help her slipping and sliding over the black ice. She manages to get over to him, dropping down onto her knees as she crouches in front of him.

“Shit. Spidey, hey! Talk to me! You okay? _Shit!_ ”

He groans, eyes blinking open and looks back at her dazed. “MJ?”

It doesn’t register that he calls her by her name. Later, she’ll remember this wasn’t their first run in – though she could have sworn she hadn’t told him her name and had introduced herself to the cops as Michelle Jones. But, anyway. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she’d imagined it.

What she definitely doesn’t imagine though is the hand clutching at his shoulder, stained dark-red.

She knows, that the man under the suit is human, but spending the last few weeks writing about him, she’s almost forgotten that he is. The endless praise and exhaustive list of superlatives have raised him up to be some mythical hero in everyone’s mind, immune to getting hurt.

“I thought you were bullet-proof?”

He chokes out a pained laugh. “Wrong superhero.”

“Well, shouldn’t you make your suit bulletproof?”

“Part of it is. Just not _this_ part.”

“Well, that’s just a really dumb design flaw, isn’t it?”

“I’ll let Tony know you approve.”

_Tony? Tony Stark?_

Huh.

She lets it go. For now.

“Let me see,” she says. “How bad is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, fingers clenching under her hand.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

He peers at her, and it’s weird with the mask. Trying to gauge just what that expression is under it.

Slowly, he pulls away his hand and MJ grimaces when she sees the dark red congealing around an obvious tear in the suit.

She falls back onto her heels as she crouches there. “I know I don’t have an M.D. but I think you’ve been shot.”

He bursts out laughing, and there’s a moment there where it sounds so familiar, her heart clenches almost involuntarily and it makes her mind race.

She feels like she knows him.

And not just through their two run-ins, or all the first-hand retellings of Spider-Man she’s heard over these last few weeks – but _really knows him._

She doesn’t get to ponder on it much longer, as he says, “I need you to check for an exit wound.”

“Um, okay. How?”

“Back. Check the back of my shoulder.”

He shifts forward slightly, and she shifts her weight onto her knees meeting him halfway before pulling him closer. They end up in a weird sort of hug, and she can’t help but think this is completely unreal and bizarre and this couldn’t possibly be her life.

Her hand comes around his shoulder, and as her fingers prod she feels a small gasp of pain in her ear, and her fingers come away sticky and wet. She pulls away to show him, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

_“That’s good?”_

“Yeah, it’ll heal.”

“How do you know you’ve not got some internal injury, nicked an artery –”

“I’d know,” he interrupts.

“And what you’ve got super healing abilities or something?”

“Something like that.”

She snorts. “Of course you have.” And then she says, because sometimes MJ really doesn’t have a brain-mouth filter: “you could probably do with eyes at the back of your head too.”

“I kinda do, well, not really, it’s more just a _sense_ really.”

“I’m guessing it’s on the fritz.”

“No, more like I got distracted.”

She’s quick to connect the dots and her expression must give her away as he’s leaning forwards suddenly, voice high and alarmed. “No, no, I’m not blaming you. It’s okay. I should have seen it coming. It’s not your fault. You were trying to help. _Ah shit, why’d I say that . . .”_ He mutters those last words under his breath and it somehow helps to ease the guilt, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

He must notice it after a moment, because then he’s breathing out and something tells her he’s smiling too.

_“Hey,”_ he says softly. Unexpectedly.

And for an infinitesimal moment her heart shudders to a stop.

_“Hey,”_ she says, swallowing thickly.

And there’s a pause then – a flicker of something passing between them in the icy January air – warm and heavy with meaning.

Meaning that is slowly unravelling, inch by inch.

But the moment disappears just like that as he clears his throat and shifts forward, uninjured arm pressing down on the gum ridden sidewalk as he tries to push himself up. Instinct has her grabbing hold of his arm and helping him.

“Are you sure you should be trying to stand? Is there someone I can call?”

“No. Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

“Who were those guys?”

“Assholes.”

Now it’s her turn to snort in amusement. For some reason, that answer hadn’t been what she’d expected, and she doesn’t know why that it is, because it’s perfectly reasonable and true.

He looks back at her. And this time she _knows_ he’s smiling as he tilts his head. “Thank you. Miss Jones.”

And for some bizarre reason, and quite out of nowhere, a picture of Peter Parker comes to mind and she freezes.

“You okay?”

She shakes her head, and shakes the ridiculous notion aside, “sure. Yeah. But I’m not the one who got thrown out a window and shot.”

He pointedly ignores the remark. “You gonna be okay getting home?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“So can I.”

“I know,” he says, and it’s not her reading into it, but it feels like it’s laden with meaning and she doesn’t have time to process it as he’s already jogging down the road as if he hadn’t just had a bullet go right through him and was down and out on the ground minutes ago.

“See you around,” he shouts back at her through cupped hands from the end of the street, before swinging up and away.

“See you around, Spidey,” she says back into the night.

And it sounds like a promise.

After all, it is the time of the year to be making them.

And as for keeping them?

Something tells her that that won’t be a problem.

 

))((

 

 


	6. February 2028; Issue No. 106

 

                                              

 

“You’ll never guess who I ran into on the way up here,” is the first thing Ned says as he drops into his chair.

His eyes are sparkling with the satisfaction of holding the keys to what he obviously deems to be a juicy piece of gossip; and Peter, not one to disappoint his best friend, looks up over the top of his computer screen and dutifully asks, “who?”

_“Harry Osborn.”_

He can see MJ’s fingers faltering at her keyboard, and she makes no attempt to hide the fact she’d been eavesdropping as she spins on her seat towards them.

Ned continues on oblivious. “Bastard flat out ignored me though. Which is fine by me. I didn’t wanna talk to that class A jerk, anyway.”

Peter frowns. “I wonder what he’s doing here?”

 _“Stalking me,”_ MJ answers flatly, and both he and Ned swivel to look back at her. She shrugs her shoulders, expression remarkably blank and indifferent. “Well, that or probably had another meeting with Jameson. Or both.”

Ned chuckles awkwardly. “Right. Yeah. Maybe.”

And Peter gets it, because despite MJ’s apparent nonchalance, he can still remember that expression on her face at the 50th anniversary party when she’d first spotted Harry in the crowd. The tension that had coiled every muscle fibre and the unease that had tightened the expression on her face. It’s the same one that lingers under her current mask – she’s just doing a better job of hiding it away this time.

But it’s not just MJ.

He feels it too – the lingering feeling swimming in his gut that tells him something’s not quite right. Not when it comes to Harry Osborn.

“You know,” Ned starts, leaning back in his chair, “I still haven’t got a clue what Oscorp’s interest in Jameson Inc. is? It doesn’t make any sense why he’d partner with the company? What’s he looking for?”

“And what does Jameson Inc. stand to gain from it?” Peter adds with a nod.

“Nothing,” MJ interjects.

Ned shares a glance with him, confused, before asking her to expand on her typically cryptic, one-word answer. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that,” she says unhelpfully.

Ned sighs, but before he can call her on it, Harrington’s sticking his head out of his office door and calling out. “Conference room, everyone. _Now_.”

It’s Tuesday, so the bemused looks all around make sense. They don’t usually get called to meetings on Tuesdays, and history has shown that spur of the moment conferences never bode well. As everyone pushes themselves out of their seats and slowly head out, the wary expressions on their faces tell him he’s not alone in that assessment.

Something in Peter’s gut tells him it has everything to do with the Oscorp heir currently lurking somewhere in the building.

He follows after Ned, with MJ trudging a few steps behind him. He doesn’t notice Abe Brown pushing past the both of them until he’s colliding against his shoulder and he lets out a small grunt of pain.

Except it’s not painful.

It doesn’t even hurt.

Not like it did before.

Because it’s healed completely now – not even a trace of a bruise lingers. It’s been just over a week since he’d been shot in the shoulder from a thwarted armed robbery gone wrong. Maybe it’s the equivalent of a phantom limb this odd sensation he feels, like he’s been left with a phantom bullet hole instead. He’s racked up an impressive sheet of injuries in his time as Spider-Man, but he doesn’t know what it is about this particular one that still bothers him.

Maybe it’s the fact he failed.

Or maybe it has everything to do with MJ having been there to witness it all.

“You okay, Parker?”

He’d completely forgotten she was behind him as he comes to a stop in front of the glass doors of the conference room. Their colleagues inside are already taking their seats as Peter rubs unconsciously at his shoulder, before dropping his hand when he notices her flickering gaze and the sharpness of its edges.

There’s a question there and he can’t let her put it together.

“Yeah, fine. It’s nothing. I uh overdid the weights at the gym last night.” And to make the point that there’s nothing to worry about, he pushes open the glass door with that same shoulder and sweeps his arm in the silent gesture of _‘after you’_.

She furrows her brow but smooths her expression over into one of practiced apathy before stepping into the room.

She takes her usual seat across the table from him, opens up her notebook and starts doodling away.

If she glances at his shoulder again, he doesn’t notice.

 

)(

 

She’s being ridiculous.

It’s got to be a coincidence.

Maybe he just has a low pain threshold that a little shove from Brown would have him clutching his shoulder like he’d been punched or knifed or _shot._

_Nah._

She’s doing this thing again – trying to prove, disprove a pretty whack theory her sleep-deprived brain one night decided to implant, and one she still hasn’t managed to entirely shake off. One that’s only grown in strength since she last came face-to-mask with Spider-Man.

There’s a growing list of coincidences she keeps tucked away, ready to be analysed to death and drive her mad, but for whatever reason, she’s not ready to confront it just yet. In any case, she certainly doesn’t have the time to indulge her inner conspiracy theorist right now because Harrington is starting the meeting.

Their boss moves himself to front of the room and clears his throat.

“Okay, so I know, I know, this is all highly unusual. But I have my orders and just . . .” he trails off with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks tired and as happy to be here as the rest of them. “Just best behaviour please and . . . _humour him_.”

Sometimes it feels like Harrington’s herding a bunch of high school kids and not grown ass adults.

She watches as her colleagues turn to one another, raised eyebrows and silently mouthed questions of the _what the hell is going on?_ variety passing between them at Harrington’s short and sweet, and very bizarre, request.

A gentle hum of murmuring builds up as he steps outside and disappears from view but comes to an abrupt halt seconds later when the glass door swings back open and Harrington re-enters with Harry Osborn close behind.

Harry makes a point of looking around the room as he walks in, tugging down his shirt sleeves and fiddling with his cufflinks. Platinum plated, of course. He looks every inch the rich, arrogant bastard.

MJ feels the cold sliver of a shiver down her spine when his gaze lands on hers and he smiles, teeth-bared and disingenuous, before turning it on the rest of the _NY Pulse_ team as he comes to a stop at the head of the table and gets right into it.

“Afternoon, guys. I’m sure there’s no need for introductions. For those rare few of you who don’t know me, I’m Harry Osborn. CEO and owner of Oscorp Industries.

“As you know since November last year, we’ve partnered with Jameson Inc. for some exciting new endeavours that we think will be mutually beneficial.”

MJ’s pretty sure his gaze falls on her with those words, but it’s only a split second of a moment as he continues on. “Now, I’ve heard a lot about _NY Pulse,_ and having had an introduction to all the publications here over the last several weeks, I’ve come to the conclusion that the ideals of this magazine are best suited to the vision I have for my company going forward.”

Flickering gazes, and subtle shifts in chairs, tell her she’s not alone in the very visceral feeling that _that’s not a good thing._ Not for them.

“So,” Harry says, clapping his hands together once, “I’m excited to announce that it’s been decided that starting from this month, there will be a new twice weekly section of the website detailing some of our most recent research and exciting breakthroughs in innovative technology and–”

“Pretty sure,” Flash interrupts suddenly, “you need to buy ad space to flog whatever you’re selling.” The comment is unexpected, surprising in its hostility and MJ is _living_ for it. She thinks she’ll have to bump Flash a few places down her list of people she barely tolerates.

“ _Pretty sure_ my millions of dollars of potential investment’s bought me more than enough ad space,” Harry retorts, the smile on his face taking on an altogether different edge.

Of course, there’s money involved.

Isn’t there always?

“And who are you gonna get to helm the column?” Ned speaks up. “Everyone’s already been assigned their articles and features, and no one’s got the extra hours to cover it. Unless you’re hiring more writers too?”

“I’m sorry, Leeds, what was that? Didn’t quite catch what you just said there.”

 _Oh hell no,_ MJ seethes as she watches the smug asshole fake innocence. It doesn’t help either that Ned flushes and seems to shrink back, opening and closing his mouth and losing his courage. She remembers the short conversation between the two on the night of the 50th anniversary, and her mind flashes to a teenage Harry and Ned and she’ll be damned if that son-of-a-bitch makes her friend feel inferior all over again.

“You heard exactly what he said,” MJ snaps.

Harry meets her words with a pointed stare and a smarmy smile she wants to wipe off his face. She has a feeling she’s gonna hate whatever it is he’s about to say next.

“No need to hire writers, when you can cut back.”

Worried glances bounce around.

Surely, he doesn’t mean?

“Cut back columns, not staff. Jeez, you’re a suspicious lot aren’t you?” he actually chuckles, and then announces without fanfare, looking directly back at her: “The sappy Spider-Man column’s gone. So, _congratulations Miss Jones_. You’re the lucky chosen one who gets to cover Oscorp. In consult with me, of course.”

She barely breathes out her nose.

_“How about fuck no?”_

“Jones!” Harrington finally intervenes.

She swivels to face their Managing Editor, fire blazing from her eyes. “That Spider-Man column is the biggest success we’ve had in months. An easy, sure-fire way to get us readership. To pull it now would be an idiotic mistake and falling right into Jameson’s hands. He sure as hell wants us to fail, and it’s probably giving him a coronary that Spider-Man’s the one swooping in for the save yet again. So, of course, he’d send his lackey to piss all over it.”

“I’m no one’s lackey, Miss Jones. I assure you.” Harry’s voice is steely, eyes like flint as he catches her gaze.

But she’s not gonna be intimidated. Not here.

Harrington speaks up again – naturally a lot less abrasive and conciliatory – oblivious to the undertones and murky depths to the power struggle playing out between his staff writer and the Oscorp heir.

“Mr Osborn, I think what’s trying to be said here is that our newest column has been a great hit with readers, it would be a shame to pull it so soon. I’m sure there’s a way we can make room for both.”

“Fine,” he snaps out through gritted teeth. “Not quite the welcome I was hoping for. But as with all relationships, it’s all about give and take. So, in the spirit of compromise – you can keep the Spider-Man column, but I still want Jones to write for me – after all, who better than your best writer and someone who already knows Oscorp _intimately_?”

And with that, he walks out.

_The bastard._

She wants to punch something. Preferably _his face._

In her seething state she almost forgets where she is. Sitting in _NY Pulse’s_ conference room, with her eerily silent, gaping colleagues staring at her like she’s some freak – there’s a giddy sort of curiosity bubbling from their stares.

Fucking journalists.

Only Peter and Ned aren’t looking at her like _she’s their next headline_.

No, theirs is more born from concern.

And nope. She can’t deal with that either.

And so, she pushes back from her chair, and walks right out of the room, too.

 

)(

 

It takes Peter a half hour to find her.

He’s not ashamed to admit he searches both the women’s and men’s restrooms, the small courtyard in the atrium on the ground floor – a supposed place of peace and tranquility, a step away from the stress of the office, which was effectively destroyed with the advent of portable technology – as well as the Goodman Building’s shared cafeteria, where he knows for a fact MJ wouldn’t even waste the time of day, but he has to try.

Ned suggests she’s just packed it in and gone home for the day.

_“Probably sensible, cos I think she was seconds away from decking the dick. Which yeah, would have been totally awesome, but then a physical assault charge? Not so much.”_

Peter spins on the spot of the ground floor foyer, just in front of the entrance, cell phone to his ear as he scans the area.

“Not helpful Ned.”

He can hear him sigh on the other end of the line.

_“Look, maybe it’s a good thing we just let her go. Give her her space. I doubt she wants to talk to anyone.”_

“She’s our friend, Ned. I just wanna make sure she’s okay.”

Ned mutters something under his breath then and it sounded an awful lot like _“god, you’re hopeless.”_

“What?”

_“Nothing.”_

Peter rubs a hand across his mouth and breathes out. “No, you’re right. Alright, I’m coming back up.”

He hangs up the call, and with one last look, he turns back to head towards the elevators. He’s so distracted he almost doesn’t hear Bill call out to him.

“Mr Parker!”

He halts his footsteps and looks back over his shoulder and smiles affably. “Oh hey, Bill. How’s it going?”

Bill grins back at him. “Not bad, Mr Parker. Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help overhear you’re looking for Miss Jones.”

“Um, oh yeah . . . have you seen her?”

He definitely looks like he has as he looks around him before leaning over the top of the high counter top and saying in a low voice. “You didn’t hear this from me. And the only reason I’m spillin’ the beans is cos she looked pretty upset when she came down here asking for the keycode.”

“Keycode?” Peter frowns.

“For the _Bugle’s_ archive room. I think she figured no one would come looking for her there, and well, you didn’t get this from me . . .”

He scribbles down a four-digit pin and slides it over to him. Peter crumples it into his hand and nods, rapping twice on the marble with his fist. “Thanks Bill.”

He decides to take the stairs. It’s only three flights and he takes the steps two at a time.

The corridors’ abandoned apart from the watchful eyes of the security camera blinking red in the corner. He knows Bill’s probably watching him on his monitor and resists the juvenile urge to throw him a wave.

Punching the numbers into the keypad, the lock turns green with a buzz and Peter pushes the door aside and steps into the archives.

He’s been in here a few times.

It’s a disorganised mess of archaic filing on rows of shelf after shelf on one side and metal cabinets on the other. He treads quietly among the rows and comes to a stop when he spots the outstretched legs on the floor ending in a familiar pair of battered red Converses.

He walks around the shelf and comes to a stop at her feet.

MJ doesn’t even look up. She’s staring intently at what looks like a random issue of the _Daily Bugle_. It’s open on the sports pages, upside down. He says nothing. Drops instead to the floor, leaning against the opposite shelf, and stretching out his own legs beside hers. His pants brush up against her jeans, and he knows they’re gonna be dusty as hell when he gets up, but he couldn’t care less.

He continues to say nothing.

And it’s enough to agitate her as she snaps out an “I’m fine.”

Peter raises a brow. “I didn’t ask.”

MJ looks up at him then and shakes her head. “Sure, cos that’s not why you came looking for me . . .”

“Who says I came looking for you?”

She snorts.

Another minute rolls by. She breathes out and shakes her head. “I just needed a minute. He just makes me . . . makes me so fucking mad.”

“Just mad?” He doesn’t know what he’s looking for when he says it. Thinks he may give away more of himself than he intends to with it.

“How else is he supposed to make me feel?” she asks with narrowed eyes. But before he can answer she’s full on (unexpectedly) ranting. “Who the hell does he think he is? Dictating what I can and can’t do? It’s like even though I escaped him, I haven’t. And he gets this sick pleasure out of constantly throwing it in my face.”

The thought alarms him.

“MJ –”

But she’s not finished. “God, it sounds so stupid and conceited when I put it out like this, but I actually thought he got involved with Jameson Inc. because of me. Because _NY Pulse_ was the only thing that was _mine_ in our relationship. And he wanted to taint that too. But I convinced myself, nah. That’s ridiculous, right? But now . . . god, what was I thinking?”

Peter tries to process what she’s saying, but it’s hard to, not when he can barely believe she’s opening up to him like this. It’s surreal. Sitting here in the dusty old archive room, on the floor, with Michelle Jones, as she rants about her ex-boyfriend. How did they get here? To a point where she feels comfortable enough to unload, and he _wants_ to be here, listening? Her metaphorical shoulder. Because she’s Michelle Jones and she doesn’t really need one. At least, if she did, it’s not something he knows she’ll ever admit to.

And the thing is: _he doesn’t think she’s wrong._

Oscorp investing in Jameson Inc. still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

He’s not really sure how either of the company’s bottom lines are set to benefit from the mutual agreement.

_Unless it’s not mutual at all._

The thought percolates for a minute, but the shaky exhale of breath from MJ derails his thoughts.

Maybe it really is all about MJ.

The question bursts out of his lips before he can stop himself.

“What did you see him in?”

There’s a second of stunned silence – like neither one of them can believe he’s asked it. He waits for her to shut down, to bend her knees and force herself to stand and walk away.

She doesn’t.

Just blows out a defeated breath and shrugs. “I have no idea anymore.”

He waits for more.

“He was funny, charming, made me feel cared for, safe – at the beginning. It wasn’t . . . wasn’t something I was used to. I didn’t come from a white picket fence kinda family, and all my relationships before – they were screwed up, but I guess I just didn’t know any better.”

The words sink in, and suddenly things about her just start to make more sense. For the first time, it feels like he’s looking at the real Michelle Jones. Not just the front she puts up against the world – but what’s hiding behind it.

The kind of vulnerability that squeezed in between his rib cage and has got a hold of his heart. He fears she won’t be letting go.

Not any time soon.

“When did it change?”

“When did what change?”

“How he made you feel?”

“Six months in – it kinda happened slowly, insidiously, until I’d dug myself a hole and I couldn’t see sunlight.”

“Why did you stay?”

She inhales sharply and faces him. “ _What is this?_ An exclusive for _NY Pulse_ – ‘the gory details of Osborn heir’s tumultuous relationship with staff writer’?”

He feels his stomach drop out, a queasy panic in his gut. “ _No_ , god no! You know I’d never – I’m sorry, I didn’t -I just-”

He moves to push himself to stand but then her hand’s reaching out, clamping around his calf and keeping him in place.

“Peter, no. I didn’t – _I was kidding, okay._ I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t . . .”

She breathes out just as his heart rate starts to slow back down.

“I’m sorry. It’s what I do – I’m an emotionally constipated asshole who runs away from . . . all this . . .” she waves vaguely around them, between them, with the words.

And he has to read between the lines to figure just what she means by that.

He swallows. “Well given your experiences, no one could blame you.”

“Damn Parker,” she snorts. “You weren’t supposed to agree with me.” From the smile curving her lips, he knows she’s kidding.

It falls silent once more. Her hand still rests on his lower leg, her finger running idly over the fabric of his dark grey pants. He resists the urge to shift away, or closer - he hasn't a got a clue which.

“I made a mistake,” she whispers.

“What kind of mistake?”

She drops her head back against the shelf, looking up at the dark, cobwebbed ceiling. Peter watches the bob of her throat as she swallows.

“We were at a party the year before – some stupid party with his snobby rich friends, and I can’t . . . I don’t really remember. I remember one drink and that’s it. Not enough to . . . I would _never_ . . .”

She drifts off and the anxiety burns under his skin.

“Harry had definitely drunk too much, so I drove us home – except I must have blanked out for a second. I woke up to the car wrapped around a tree, Harry barely conscious and I called the cops and the ambulance and . . .”

He has a sick feeling he knows where this is going.

“They arrested me – made up some shit about me being over the legal limit, other drugs in my system. God, it was like everything my dad ever said I’d amount to in his drunken outbursts was coming true. And I was so fucking terrified. I thought, this is it. It’s all over. But then – just like that, all the charges dropped, like nothing ever happened.”

“Harry,” Peter surmises.

But MJ shakes her head. “No, Norman.

“His father paid them off, hushed it all up. As if it never happened. But he never let me forget. Neither did Harry.”

“You felt guilty,” he makes another conclusion.

“Yeah. Part of why I stayed as long as I did.”

“I’m sorry.”

She raises a brow at that. “Why are you sorry?”

He holds her gaze. “No one should ever be made to feel like that. I’m sorry you went through it.”

She stares back at him, a small smile appearing at the corner of her lips when she shakes her head. “You’re something else, Peter Parker.”

He feels a faint blush creeping up onto his cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that.”

Another non-answer. But there’s something then in her expression that tells him she just did.

“Help me up?” she asks suddenly, clearly all talked out.

And it’s a simple request and yet from her, it surprises him.

He pushes himself to standing and reaches out with both hands. She grabs hold without hesitation – skin warm, soft, in his own rough grasp. MJ pushes herself up as he pulls, and the momentum has her tilting into him once standing, brushing against his chest. She’s still taller than him even in her converse, and he can feel her peering down at him. Breath warm tickling the shell of his ear. He chances a glance and swallows hard.

She’s staring at his lips, and wonders if she can feel it too.

If she _wants_ it too.

But then her eyes are snapping up to his, and she’s taking a step back, taking the air with her.

“Um thanks,” she says.

“Sure,” he manages to stammer out. “No problem.”

 _Now._ A voice urges him on. _Say it now._

And exactly what he’s supposed to say he hasn’t quite figured out. Not that it matters.

MJ’s whole expression has changed. From soft, uncertain, to frowning and confused.

“MJ, what –” he starts but doesn’t finish, because she’s walking away to the other side of the room and towards something that’s caught her attention. He follows after her, until she comes to a stop in front of a row of old filing cabinets.

She drops her hand on top of one of them and stares down at it.

It’s his turn to be confused. It’s just a filing cabinet. Like all the rest. Grey and beige and completely nondescript.

“This wasn’t here the last time,” she breathes out.

“What?”

“They put it back.”

“Who?”

But MJ’s too busy running her fingers over the top of it and yanking at the drawers to pay attention to his endless questions. Not when she has her own she’s seeking answers to.

The drawers open to old _Daily Bugle_ print issues, and she’s rifling through them, in search of something. There’s a twitch of nervousness, excitement in her fingers as she pulls one old broadsheet out.

He reads the date across the top.

_June 25 th 1998_

The headline reads:

**_SPECIAL EDITION_ **

**J. JONAH JAMESON: EDITOR-IN-CHIEF**

**_1977-1998_ **

**Founding father steps down after 21 years**

Her eyes rapidly scan the article – her excitement dulling with every line she reads.

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

She finally looks up at him. Almost as if remembering she’s not alone, that he’s standing here. Confused as hell as to what’s going on.

“When I was asked to write the article for the 50th anniversary piece – I was asked to collect a bunch of articles from storage. Including this one. The last piece published by the _Daily Bugle_ with Jameson as EIC. _But_ it wasn’t here.”

“Maybe someone borrowed it and put it back.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “You don’t understand. The whole cabinet was missing. This,” she bangs on the metal top, “wasn’t here.”

Peter frowns. “That makes no sense.”

“Exactly! I thought, I just thought maybe there was something in the article – something to explain it . . .”

“It’s just a cabinet full of old copies of the newspaper – what could anyone want with it? Maybe,” Peter shrugs, “they took it away for maintenance?”

MJ gives him a look then – as if to say what a ridiculous thing to say. She looks pointedly around the room, at the poorly organised shelves and old rusted cabinets, one even sporting an impressive dent. Who knows how the hell that had happened?

“Yeah, no. You’re right. It’s odd.”

MJ breathes out as she closes the cabinet drawer but keeps hold of the article. “It is.”

He doesn’t ask her why she hasn’t put it back.

Thinks she’s probably all Q & A’d out for the day.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “Let’s”

 

)(

 

MJ’s still pondering the mystery of the reappearing cabinet long after they return to the office. Her thoughts so preoccupied she has no time to dwell on her and Peter’s conversation on the dusty floor, deep inside the archive and just how easily the secrets that had been weighing her down for so long had spilled from her lips. Or how she had felt relieved to share her burden. And safe. The kind of safe she could trust. Because she trusted Peter Parker.

Which she knows doesn’t make a whole lot sense when she suspects he’s hiding something huge from her, from everyone.

Neither does she notice the stares from her colleagues – their curiosity after that farce of a meeting and her subsequent exit sadly having not died down.

No, she’s too busy poring over the newspaper in her hand.

Nothing jumps out of her as she reads over the headline article once more.

She sticks it into her bag to read through later when she hears the tail end of a conversation between Ned and Peter.

“– it was like he was talking to him.”

“You’re sure?” Peter whispers back.

“I snuck a peek around the corner, he was jabbing his finger into thin air, and looked pissed as hell.”

“What was he saying?”

“I couldn’t hear everything – he spotted me. I panicked and grabbed this off the counter . . .” Ned picks up a spoon, ignoring how ridiculous it is, and continues, “making up some crap about needing one for my yoghurt, but I don’t think he was listening. He just froze, and then grabbed his cell, put it to his ear and walked out.”

“Maybe his phone had been on loudspeaker?”

“I saw what I saw dude.”

“Saw what?” MJ finally asks, making no big deal of the fact she’d been eavesdropping. _Again._

Ned opens his mouth to answer but the only thing that leaves his lips is a grunt, as Peter kicks him under the table.

“Nothing.”

“Right,” she answers to that.

The thing is she knows exactly what, or who, they’re talking about. She also gets, given what they’d been talking about not that long ago, why Peter wouldn’t want to dredge it up. So instead of feeling annoyed for being left out of the loop, part of her feels touched, although another feels slightly indignant that he thinks she can’t handle it.

But she thinks she’s spent enough time dwelling on her ex, and if she’s going to have to spend the next couple of months covering Oscorp, then she could do with it not taking up all twenty-four hours of her day.

It’s not the first time she’s seen Harry Osborn talking out loud to a very dead Norman Osborn in an empty room. At first, in the immediate few weeks after his death, she’d thought it had been just his grief manifesting, helping him cope.

But the more it happened, the more she’d started to wonder if he were having full blown hallucinations.

She’d tried raising it with him, back when they were together, but he’d brush it off – always ready with some excuse.

It’s getting bad if he’s doing it out in public.

But callous though it may sound.

It’s not her problem any more.

 

)(

 

The Spider-Man column gets bumped down to once weekly to help MJ cope with both.

Peter even offers to cover it, even though the idea doesn’t sit well with him, but he’s turned down. Days all melt into each other – after all, it’s the same every day. Wake-up, go to work (late), try not to stare at MJ, try not to think about MJ, leave work, swing around NYC and fight crime, crawl in through his window and collapse on his bed, and wake up in the morning to his blaring alarm and do it all over again.

He’s waiting for it though.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because it feels like – other than Harry’s unwelcome foray into _NY Pulse’s_ newsroom and office – it’s been shockingly quiet and drama free around him.

But then mid-February rolls around.

Otherwise known as February the fourteenth.

AKA. Valentine’s Day.

 _“You should tell her how you feel,”_ Aunt May tells him over the phone the night before.

He’s standing in his small kitchen, stirring his Bolognese sauce, with his cell on speakerphone on the counter top. He’s not so bad at this cooking thing. It takes him several attempts to get it right, but he’s got the hang of it now. Well, this one dish anyway. His culinary repertoire is not that expansive.

“Not this again,” he mutters, but Aunt May’s ears are sharp.

_“Are you still denying it? You know you can’t lie to me, Peter.”_

He blows out a breath. There’s no point in fighting her about it. But it’s not so easy.

“She’s got out of a recent, very messy, long-term relationship with an asshole who broke her trust and manipulated her by the sounds of it. I doubt she’s gonna want me expressing my undying love for her while she’s still trying to get her head together.”

_“Undying love, huh?”_

He rolls his eyes but of course she can’t see it.

“Of course, that’s all you heard, and that’s not what I meant.”

She laughs. _“Fine. Fine. Doesn’t mean you can’t do something nice for her . . . as her friend.”_

He shakes his head, switching off the hob as the sauce starts to bubble and spit.

“Oh look,” he says then, wanting this conversation at an end, “I think I hear sirens in the background! Gotta go!”

_“Peter!”_

“Love you Aunt May!”

She groans. _“Love you, Pete. Be careful!”_

“Always.”

He hangs up the phone and curses St Valentines.

As it happens, a major road traffic collision on Queen’s Boulevard keeps him pretty busy for the rest of the night, and Peter never does manage to think up anything to do for MJ, as per Aunt May’s suggestion. Which is probably really a blessing in disguise as a) _they’re just friends_ and b) he knows MJ and knows how well any gesture would be appreciated. _Not at all_ , is the answer to that. And if he knows her well enough, he knows she likely hates the consumer-driven holiday, anyway.

He’s proven right the following day.

He stumbles into the office, out of breath, half an hour late just behind the mailman and in time to witness him delivering a box into MJ’s hands. She looks down at it startled and mildly disgusted, and for a moment she turns and looks at him – and like an idiot, he says, _“What? You think it’s from me?”_

“Better not be,” she retorts, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes.

Something that may just have been disappointment, which definitely throws him for a loop.

But then she’s opening it and her expression changes from mild annoyance to that look he’s only seen once before.

Cold, dreaded horror.

Back at the 50th anniversary party.

Even Ned notices it as he asks, frowning, “MJ, you okay?”

She steps back from the box, and it’s enough to have him walking over to her, scarf only partially unwound and winter coat still on.

He looks down at the gift and his heart shudders in his rib cage.

The box is covered at the base with hundreds of red rose petals.

Which, yeah, sure, _romantic._

Except –

_They’re dead and decaying._

But that’s not all.

Because there on the top, is a note.

Peter doesn’t touch it, but the writing is large and clear enough to be read from where they’re standing:

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_Spider-Man’ll be dead soon,_

_And so will you._

It’s a threat. Plain as day.

But that’s not the most alarming thing about it. No, because it suggests two things:

  1. Either MJ has a stalker who has seen them together, or
  2. Whoever has sent this actually knows his true identity and knows him well enough to know that the best way to get to him is through the people he cares about.



(It doesn’t occur to him that maybe it’s both.)

“Well that’s original,” MJ scoffs after a long few seconds of their horrified silence.

“You know,” she continues when neither of them say a word – her own voice low and remarkably steady – “if they took out the ‘soon’ they’d actually have a decent rhyming couplet.”

At his and Ned’s disbelieving stares, she shrugs.

_“Just saying.”_

 

))((

 


	7. March 2028; Issue No. 107

 

                                            

 

It’s all she sees behind closed eyelids.

A deep, dark, blackened red of the dead and dying.

The stupid poem that’s been bastardised countless times.

The way the word ‘you’ had been scratched into the paper – hard, angry lines, ending in a period that had been marked with such force it had left a hole.

_Hate._

The whole parcel had stunk of hate, and she could still smell it. Even now.

MJ had shrug it off at the time; like it hadn’t been a big deal. That she hadn’t been bothered by it. But the last two weeks of sleepless nights told a different story.

She remembers the police officer asking her if she could think of anyone who would want to hurt her.

She’d said no.

And the officer had given her a look that had said he didn’t believe her. It had been a familiar expression, one she’d seen before.

_“Seems like you know this Spider-Man fella pretty well?”_

The comment had been framed like a question but was more statement of fact. Her eyes had flickered from the box back to the officer’s face then and she’d recognised that condescending press of the lips through the ‘someone just sent me a death threat’ fog that had filled her mind.

It was the same asshole who had been at the scene when she’d been jumped walking home last October, and Spider-Man had swooped in for the save. That same asshole who veered towards age-old victim-blaming, which sadly seemed to be an indelible stain on the mentality of more people than one would think.

This time, though, the officer hadn’t been partnered with his better half, but another who had looked disinterested and half a second away from falling asleep upright.

Ned and Peter had been hovering around her, concerned, protective; with Harrington off to the side talking to security, trying to get the details of the mailman who had delivered the package.

She’d felt Peter stiffen beside her at the question.

“I have no idea who he is,” she’d retorted.

A lie.

It had been a lie.

Because MJ prides herself on being observant. And she’s not stupid.

She didn’t have concrete evidence. Just a lot of coincidences and a nagging gut-feeling that had been pestering her for months now.

But somehow in that moment it had all come together.

She’d known with the kind of certainty she’d been trying to ignore all this time.

Not quite a hundred percent but close enough.

She’d met Peter’s gaze then and had lied one more time.

_“No idea, whatsoever.”_

 

)(

 

It frustrates him.

The lack of interest the NYPD display in trying to hunt down who sent the package.

It irritates the way they just brush it off as another whack-job who has something against superheroes and vigilantes. They explain it away as it simply being a case of some crazy asshole thinking _NY Pulse_ has some sort of quid pro quo relationship with Spider-Man, and so it makes sense they’d send a generic threat to one of their staff members.

And as per MJ’s testimony she couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm her.

Ergo, it hadn’t been meant for her.

Hadn’t been personal.

But it had _felt_ personal.

The box had reeked of a personal grudge.

He just couldn’t put it together any better than the NYPD, and the only difference between them being he actually gave a shit.

Peter spends nights trying to piece it together.

Who had seen them that first time he’d come to her rescue? Who had seen them that night he’d been shot? As far as he can remember the streets had been eerily empty on both occasions. But that doesn’t mean there hadn’t been anyone lurking in the shadows.

But it’s not just the lack of action or progress that frustrates him.

It’s the way MJ doesn’t really seem all that rattled or bothered.

It’s not that he _wants_ her to be crippled with nightmares and panic attacks, he just wishes she’d be _more careful._

When he tells her as such, she snarks back with a _“yes, mom.”_

His aggravated _“I’m not kidding”_ is met with raised eyebrows and an incredulous, instant surrender. _“Wow. Okay, sure, Parker. I’ll be careful.”_

Except she isn’t.

He watches her.

Again. _Not creepily._

Just in an ‘I care about you a lot more than I should and I think it’d kill me if someone hurt you because of me’ kinda way.

And damn it.

MJ pays no attention.

She still leaves the office late, long after it’s turned dark; she takes the same poorly lit route just because it’s five minutes faster; and she pays no attention to anything that goes on behind her. Someone could be chasing her down with a switchblade and she wouldn’t have a clue until it’s sandwiched between her shoulder blades and she’s bleeding out on the grimy, New York sidewalk, alone. Just another cautionary tale.

It's the first week of March when he’s proven wrong.

Spring is yet to announce its arrival, although the cold snap seems to be over, replaced only by endless drizzle. Today, though, that drizzle has turned into a full-on downpour – the rain hitting the ground with such force, the droplets bounce back up at sharp angles, and add another layer of sound to the already overwhelming background noise of the city.

New York has its own special soundtrack and it’s always different, yet somehow miraculously the same, every day.

MJ leaves work around 7pm.

It’s late, as usual.

And the toll of working multiple features for _NY Pulse_ is there in the tired sigh that leaves her lips as she hefts her fraying backpack onto one shoulder and starts walking.

Peter follows close behind, silently swinging between office buildings and running along rooftops, staying effortlessly out of sight. She takes the same route, as always - the one that winds down side streets and alleyways, cutting corners and disappearing in and out of the long shadows cast in between the sparse streetlamps.

Everything is fine, until it’s not.

It’s as she walks past that same alleyway – that same one where she’d been attacked - that he loses track of her.

He waits crouched there on the rooftop, waiting for her to re-emerge – scans the area, strains his hearing but . . .

_Nothing._

Panic thrums under his skin, making his suit feel tight and uncomfortable for the very first time.

He launches himself down onto the street and there’s no one around as he ducks into the alleyway. It still smells the same – a putrid mix of decaying garbage and piss, and unlike before, there’s no one here.

_“Part time superhero, part time stalker, huh?”_

He releases the breath held in his lungs and resists the urge to laugh; shakes his head instead as he turns on the spot.

_Busted._

MJ steps out of the shadows, and so yep. Maybe she hadn’t been as oblivious to her surroundings as he’d thought.

She hadn’t been carrying an umbrella with her. Had opted to use her hoodie for cover, but the fabric hadn’t been prepared for the heavy rainfall and had soaked through. The wet curls escaping from under it cling to the sides of her face as she smirks back at him.

He draws a blank on what possible explanation he can give that won’t give himself away. She’s got him well and truly cornered.

“I just . . . um . . . I saw you, while I was you know um out there,” he waves in the general direction of the street, trying to encompass New York in that one motion, “doing my normal Spider-Man _stuff_. . . and just thought I should come and say _hey_ and  . . . also _thanks_. Thanks again for that other day. You know, when I was shot . . .”

He drifts off, his rambling coming to a stop as he crashes over the side of a ravine and is submerged under freezing cold water, because clearly MJ wasn’t gonna pull him back from the edge. He reaches up to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck and misses the way she tracks the movement – a telling, nervous habit, to everyone else but him.

“That the way you want to play it, huh? Fine,” she shrugs. “No problem.” There’s a teasing lilt to the words, and he shifts uncomfortably with it.

“What d’you mean?” he asks, though he knows he probably shouldn’t have.

“It’s just you’re brave enough to leap off Manhattan Bridge to save a woman you don’t know, and yet it takes two weeks of doing your worst Jessica Jones impression before getting the courage to come down and talk to me. Although . . .” she steps forward, “technically, I forced your hand, but still . . .”

_“Maybe you scare me more than a three-hundred-foot drop into the East River.”_

He doesn’t know where those words, that admission, comes from, but it’s the truth. MJ scares him. Or maybe, it’s more his feelings for her that scares him. Still, he wasn’t supposed to come right out and say it.

Thankfully, she doesn’t realise what it is he’s admitting as she snorts, “I don’t doubt it. But I call bullshit.”

“Okay. So, what do _you_ think?”

“Nuh uh. You tell me. You’re the stalker, Spidey.”

The truth. She wants the truth, and he wants to tell her, he does.

_But he can’t._

But it’s as he spins his web of lies at the back of his mind, he realises that maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe he _can_ get away with the truth.

Just not _all of it._

“I uh spoke to Peter Parker. He told me what happened with the death threat. He asked me to keep an eye out for you. Make sure you were safe.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, stepping closer, the puddles of water slapping against the press of the soles of her boots. “He did, did he? Didn’t know he had you on speed-dial?”

He sidesteps the remark, frustration – weeks of it – prodding against his skull. “You know you’re not making it very easy for me. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to stick to well-lit streets and avoid the dark, dangerous alleyways?”

She shrugs. “Parents never were generous with their pearls of wisdom. Not that they had many.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that – feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

 _I didn’t come from a white picket fence kinda family_ she’d said once.

By the expression on MJ’s face she’d said more than she’d wanted to as she looks away from him and at the crumbling brick wall off to the side, before taking in a deep breath and exhaling. She turns back towards him, and it’s almost as if her gaze catches starlight as it glints in the dark.

“Okay Spidey. I promise to be more careful if you can answer something for me?”

He swallows.

Because whatever it is she’s about to ask, he knows he’s not going to be able to lie. Not to her.

_“Why are you really following me?”_

He breathes out, a rush of air leaving his lips as a traitorous hand reaches up to scratch his neck again. “I already told you, I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

She cocks her head to the side, taking yet another step closer.

“You or Peter?”

“Both,” he answers, the word a mere whisper from his lips but of course she can hear him even in this rain.

“You really care that much about me?”

“I do. I mean, he does. _I mean . . .”_

If she’d had any suspicions before, he’d well and truly gone and confirmed them right there in that moment of inelegant stuttering.

She takes that last step, and he stops breathing because her hand drops down, landing on his cheek. The heat of her touch somehow manages to burn through the material of his mask – _so much for fireproof_ – as her fingers dance along the edge of his jaw line, before drifting down his neck, only stopping when they hit the seam where mask and suit overlap.

He knows just what it is she’s asking for.

He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare breathe, as the tips of her fingers start to push his mask up.

Cold, wet air hits the bare skin of his neck, the bob of his Adam’s apple exposed as he gulps.

Something close to panic grips him and it’s that which makes him do it.

That makes him reach out, hand grabbing hold of her wrist and stopping her in her tracks.

Regret hits him instantly.

Because the brightness in her eyes dim, and the words that leave her lips are like she’s driven the edge of a knife into his heart herself.

_“So why doesn’t he trust me?”_

She doesn’t linger though – holds the knife there long enough for it to hurt, before yanking it out and stepping back.

The smile on her face is sad, and he hates himself for it.

“Thanks for looking out for me, Spidey. But I think the rest of the city needs you right now more than I do. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

The perfectly timed sirens in the far-off distance make her point for her.

She doesn’t wait around for him to object.

Only turns on her feet and disappears out into the street until she’s nothing but a fading silhouette in the rainy night.

 

)(

 

MJ’s mad at herself.

For not putting it together much sooner.

Some deep-seated denial is what stopped her from getting there.

Lord knows why.

But the truth is this.

_Spider-Man is Peter Parker._

It all makes sense. All the inconsistencies, oddities, all the things that stood out to her in sharp, stark relief, triggering her instincts that something was amiss, finally all come together in one simple, elegant answer.

_Peter Parker is Spider-Man._

The secretive whispering desks away. The late mornings which can only be explained away by late nights patrolling the city. The all access interviews. The defensiveness. The embarrassment. But most of all, it’s all in the minute details. Things about Spider-Man that were just so unbelievably Peter Parker.

If she’d been ninety-five percent there before, the battery level was now at fully charged.

Her late-night run-in with him had only confirmed her suspicions.

Even if _he_ hadn’t. Not directly anyway.

And amazing as it is.

_It hurts._

The fact he still won’t tell her.

Even though the guilt on his face every morning since that night tells her that he knows she knows.

But then, she has to check herself.

Because they’ve only really been friends for a few months now. Why would he trust her? Confide in her? In the way that she has with him?

Granted, it’s not quite the same.

Really, how do you compare _my boyfriend was a grade A jackass_ with _hi, I’m Spider-Man, your friendly, neighbourhood superhero_?

And yet her stupid heart overrides her usually dependable brain because maybe a little part of her believed her stupid, inconvenient, nonsensical feelings for the loser weren’t so one-sided.

It’s been three days since her run-in with Spider-Man and she’s been doing a brilliant job of ignoring Nerd and Nerdier at work so far. Although, it is a shame that Leeds has turned into an unsuspecting casualty of whatever the hell is (or isn’t) going on between her and Parker.

MJ blows out a breath.

It’s for the best.

She hasn’t got the time or the energy for heartbreak. Not after Harry Osborn.

_Speaking of._

“How’s that all going anyway?” Liz asks her around a slice of burnt toast. MJ can tell she’s in too much of a hurry to get into the real nitty gritty of this conversation, which suits her just fine.

She leans back – edge of the kitchen counter jutting into her lower back, her head thudding softly against the overhead cupboard – as she curls both her hands around her still warm coffee mug tighter. She’s still dressed in her pyjamas, slippers on her feet, and she’s being unusually slow and sluggish to get ready this morning. But then given the fact she’s not heading for the Goodman Building, but in fact across the other side of the city to spend the entire day at the Oscorp facility, she doesn’t think anyone can blame her.

“I’ve only been there twice since I was handed the assignment and both times Harry’s either been in a meeting or some other place, so can’t really complain.”

Liz looks up from stuffing her laptop into her bag. “Is it really still that bad between the two of you?” she asks, frown furrowing her brow.

“I don’t think it was ever good to begin with.”

She gives her a sad look then. A look that says, ‘you don’t really mean that, do you?’

Except, she does.

Because MJ can’t ever look back on those first six months of her relationship with Harry and see them in the same way. Too much has happened to not see it as anything other than a master manipulation.

MJ adds nothing else to her comment, and Liz says nothing more – just sighs softly as she slips on her heels, hefts her black leather tote onto her shoulder and comes around the breakfast table. She reaches forward to give her a hug and a squeeze and reassures her. “You’ll be fine. Go kill it like you always do.”

MJ nods. “You too.”

And then she’s hurrying off, the front door clicking close behind her.

With a deep sigh, MJ takes one last sip of her coffee before draining the rest down the sink and heading back to her bedroom to get ready for whatever new hell the day has in store for her.

 

)(

 

“You do know she’s working on her Oscorp feature today, right?” Ned asks him, chewing on the end of a strawberry lace.

Peter swivels back to face him and doesn’t even pretend that he hadn’t been staring forlornly at MJ’s empty desk. “Yeah I know.”

“Okay,” Ned says slowly. “So, what’s with the constant staring?”

Peter sighs. Heavy and burdened. Finger tapping on the edge of his desk as he decides to come right out with it.

“She knows.”

Ned frowns. “Knows what?”

At Peter’s expression, Ned puts it together quickly. His eyes widen with understanding and he whispers an enthusiastic _“holy shit! You told her?”_

He grimaces. “Not exactly . . .”

“Then how do you . . .”

“Three nights ago, I was out patrolling –”

Ned throws him a look that can only be interpreted as _yeah right._

“Okay,” he concedes blowing out a breath and lowering his voice further, “I was just watching out to make sure she got home okay and whoever sent that threat wasn’t lurking around any dark corners waiting to attack her.”

Ned shakes his head. “Dude, I told you it wasn’t a good idea. Bet she wasn’t happy to find you creeping in the shadows.”

“I wasn’t creeping. I was trying to . . . never mind. Anyway, she knew I’d been there the whole time.”

Ned whistles low. Impressed.

“ _And?_ What happened?”

Peter’s cheeks redden. “I may have told her that _I_ sent _me_ to look out for her, and somewhere along the way, kinda given away, in not so many words, that we’re one and the same. At least – I’m pretty sure, she’d already known, and I’d just confirmed her suspicions.”

Peter remembers the way she’d looked at him. Standing there in the rain, drops of water teetering on the edge of her eyelashes, blinking them away as a sad smile tilted at her lips. It hadn’t just been starlight that had made her eyes shine at him that night – but the silent plea of _please just tell me_ , _because I already know, you loser._

And he’d ignored her.

And it’s been chewing him up from the inside out.

Doesn’t help much either that she’s been avoiding him since.

She’s not said much to him or Ned in the last two days, made some excuse about being snowed under with work to avoid catching lunch with them, and up until now, Ned had fallen for it. Taken it in his stride as MJ just being MJ – nothing to worry about.

Except he knows better.

And now Ned knows too.

Ned looks back at him – and he looks so disappointed, Peter feels it hit him right in the gut. “Let me get this straight . . . you’ve not actually told her the truth?”

“Is there much point? She already knows.”

“Peter! Yes! There is! Just tell her!”

He sinks back in his seat.

Maybe it won’t salvage anything, but Ned, as he often does, has a point.

“Tonight,” he nods, determined as he sits up straighter. The decision, terrifying though it is, made. “I’ll tell her tonight.”

Ned sighs then – and whether it’s in relief or exasperation, Peter hasn’t got a clue.

No.

Because he’s back to staring at MJ’s empty desk and wishing, not for the first (and certainly not for the last) time, that he’d been given the gift of courage along with his abilities.

 

)(

 

The Oscorp facility is as clinical and uninviting as a hospital waiting room.

The staff aren’t really any better. Either dressed in starchy, stuffy monochromatic suits of varying shades of grey, or blinding white, pristine, crease free (as if they do nothing but stand all day with clipboards permanently glued to their hands) lab coats – they give MJ the heebie-jeebies.

The place is just a canvass of black, white and grey.

Cold, stark and unimaginative.

If this place is supposed to be renown for its cutting edge and exciting research, MJ thinks they need to hire a better interior designer and invest in a PR company that knows what the hell they’re doing. So far, the response to her latest feature on the _NY Pulse_ website has been lukewarm at best.

She hopes today will afford her something she can sink her teeth into.

(She highly doubts it.)

This morning it’s Rita’s turn to do the guided tour. The perky, sweet-faced blonde meets her in the (frankly wasteful) cavernous front foyer of Oscorp, and introduces herself with a brilliant, white smile.

MJ doesn’t so much hear the introduction but is reminded of her name by the badge pinned prominently to her shirt. Even with the stilettos, she still only manages to come up to MJ’s chin.

“Miss Jones, it’s so nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”

MJ doesn’t return the smile. Says nothing either.

Visibly discomfited, the woman steps back and clears her throat. “Well, we’ve got an exciting morning planned for you. Mr Osborn has requested that I give you a guided tour of our _fifteenth floor.”_ She says the last two words on a dramatic, hushed whisper as if it’s supposed to be some major deal.

She conveys her ongoing disinterest with a huff of breath and realises a second later that she’s probably being _a little_ rude and this woman doesn’t really deserve the attitude, and so she manages a glimmer of a smile, and says, “great.”

Its enough for Rita to beam back at her and start walking, expecting MJ to follow.

“Oscorp has been involved in some truly fascinating work,” she says stepping into the elevator, and hitting the button for the fifteenth floor, before continuing on to extol the virtues of her employer. “As well as making potentially life-changing breakthroughs in gene splicing.”

The elevator glides smoothly to a stop seconds later, which makes a nice change from her old, apartment one – constantly breaking down and in need of some serious maintenance – it always jerks at each floor hard enough to cause whiplash. It’s why she sticks to the stairs.

As the doors ping open, Rita continues her spiel. “Of course, cancer is the big one, but we’re looking into curing MS, Huntington’s, even Alzheimer’s . . .”

She looks back at her, and MJ manages to pass off an expression that looks vaguely impressed.

They meander along a corridor before stopping in front of doors labelled 15.07. Rita presses her hand to the keypad on the wall, and they swoosh open with a pneumatic hiss.

“I’m sure the _NY Pulse_ readers will be riveted by what you’ll see today.”

“I’m sure,” MJ retorts as she steps into the lab.

There are glass tanks lining desk after desk with overhead blue lights, turning the water inside a dazzling electric shade. But it’s what’s inside that catches MJ’s attention and makes her want to turn around and leave, article be damned.

The tanks are full of octopuses and squids, probably stolen from the Pacific and transported cross-county to be poked and prodded and cut-up and electrocuted and MJ’s fingers clench with the urge to throw something into the glass and rescue them all.

She doesn’t though; knows that she’ll probably end up killing them whilst trying to liberate them, but then she wonders if you’re really living at all, if you’re not living free?

And it’s a sentiment that hits too close to home – especially on _his_ turf.

“So, this lab here is looking into the remarkable regeneration properties of cephalopods. The US army has taken quite an interest, looking particularly at helping veterans who are amputees.”

There’s a pride bursting from the words Rita speaks, and as MJ looks more closely, takes in the US army stamps plastered to the sides of the tanks, MJ doesn’t feel any of her excess enthusiasm soaking in. If anything, it only makes her feel more uncomfortable.

In theory, what Oscorp are trying to do here is _good._

In reality, _it’s Oscorp._

“Okay,” Rita says then, clapping her hands together, “if you follow me now, I’ll take you over to our arthropod division.”

MJ listens to her prattle on about various insects and spew random facts as she winds her way through sterile looking corridors, until they’re stopping at lab 15.15, and an uninvited voice adds itself to the one-sided conversation, before she can press down on the keypad.

“Oh, we’re onto the arachnids already are we Rita? Excellent.”

Harry Osborn’s voice is like being doused in a bucket of cold water – unpleasant and makes your heart stop in a not so welcome way.

Rita smiles even bigger.

“Mr Osborn! I didn’t know you would be coming back so soon?”

“Meeting was cancelled,” he answers, looking at MJ and offering her his most charming smile.

MJ doesn’t smile back, but that doesn’t deter the bastard. Nope, he just turns towards the other woman, and presses his hand to her shoulder. His huge palm engulfs the width of her, and MJ feels that same sense of unease – that if her were to squeeze, he could shatter bone. And some, instinctive, protective part of her wants to pull the woman from his grasp and tell her to _run._

“Thank you so much, Rita. I’ll take it from here.”

She nods, her sunny smile faltering for the first time all morning. “Enjoy the rest of your tour, Miss Jones.”

Once she’s gone, Harry stretches out a gallant hand – “after you.”

The doors open with a now familiar hiss and MJ steps inside.

The lab is currently devoid of any white coat wearing Oscorp automatons. The overhead lights that flicker on tint the room in an eerie red. The set up is similar to the previous room, except swap one eight-legged creature for another locked away in the glass cages lining the benches.

There are spiders everywhere.

An arachnophobe’s literal worst nightmare.

Good thing MJ seems to have an affinity for them these days.

And it’s that thought that raises her guard, because she’s starting to believe in coincidences less and less these days.

She clears her throat. “So, what do you want me to write about this time?”

Harry takes a walk around the room. The red lights catching him in intervals, sharpening the edges of his jawline, eyes glittering dark in amusement.

She’d think it was at her impatience but knows it’s at her expense.

“Did you know that the very first work we did with gene splicing was with a radio-ionised spider. We were looking for a cure for cancer.”

“Isn’t everyone?” MJ says blithely.

He ignores her remark, silently walking around the room before coming to a stop on the opposite side of the tank she’s standing in front of. Inside it there’s a layer of gravel and dirt, and several plants she can’t name, but there’s no spider. Not one she can see anyway.

“My father had been so proud of the work we were doing that even though the board of directors had wanted to keep it under wraps – we hadn’t even touched the surface of what we could do yet, there was still so much unexplored that they wanted to wait before making it all public knowledge – but he ignored them. Wanted it to feature in our portfolio that same year.”

MJ stays quiet – she can sense it, the incoming storm to ruin her peace.

“Your boyfriend actually took some photos for us in here for it – did he ever tell you that?”

Her instinct to correct him about Peter’s role in her life is weighed down by the sprout of panic fast growing roots in the pit of her stomach.

“I remember you mentioning it before.”

He frowns, obviously trying to remember, and she can see it when his mind lands on the 50th anniversary party and grins, “oh yes! I remember now. Told him we went in a different direction with our portfolio. Shame. He really is very talented.”

“He is.”

Harry ignores her once more.

“Here’s another interesting fact,” he says, leaning over the tank, arms folded and resting along the top edge, “the first ever radioactive spider we created used to live in this tank.”

And she knows she’s falling into his well-laid trap but her mounting anxiety has her asking, “used to?”

“Yeah, you know it’s interesting?” he huffs out a disingenuous laugh, “I think it went missing the same day Parker was in here.”

MJ swallows and tries to shake it off, as if it doesn’t mean anything. As if the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle Harry’s taunting her with aren’t from one of those hard-wood, four-piece puzzles a one year old could put together.

MJ may be more of a wordsmith, but she’s not too shabby at calculus either.

Two plus two is the equivalent of Peter Parker plus radioactive spider.

And it all equals to Harry Osborn fucking knowing who Spider-Man is.

“Now wouldn’t that be an amazing story?” Harry grins at her.

And MJ feels sick.

Like she’s two seconds away from hurling.

Because just like that _she knows_.

She knows who sent that package.

He’s standing right in front of her.

And it couldn’t be anyone else.

Because there’s a thin line between love and hate, and in the twisted, obsessive mind of someone like Harry that line blurs and warps until there’s no difference.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she manages to say, keeping her voice as even as she can when her heart is rattling in her chest.

“Of course you don’t.” Harry smiles at her – smarmy, knowing and laughing at her – in a way that tells her he can see through her feeble attempt at denial.

He doesn’t stop there though. No, he creeps back around the vacant glass cage to stand behind her.

“You know what else would make an amazing story, MJ?” he whispers, hot puffs of air landing on her exposed skin as he literally breathes down her neck.

“What?”

And she knows what it is he’s going to say.

“Our love story, of course.”

The words brush against the shell of her ear and she visibly shivers.

Pushing her way out from where he’s trapped her against the tank, she spits out furiously, “You’re a psychopath Harry. I’m leaving.”

She reaches the door – the automatic sensors kicking in and sliding them open but before she can step through, Harry’s voice, cold once more, reaches her one last time.

“Dinner, tonight. What do you say?

“Oh, and before you say ‘no’, I’d just like to reassure you that if you’re worried about Peter? Don’t be. I’m sure he’ll find someone else and at least he’ll still have his extra-curriculars to keep him busy. I think it’s best for all involved, don’t you think?”

And there it is.

The thinly veiled threat.

Not said in so many words, but MJ can hear it loud and clear.

And despite her sleepless nights over that damn box and stupid poem, she realises now what had scared her the most.

Because it had never been about her.

It had been about him.

About Spider-Man.

Because the real question is this:

_Who’s going to protect him?_

She says nothing as she steps out the door and walks away.

But her silence is all the answer he needs.

 

)(

 

Tonight.

He’s gonna tell her tonight.

 _“Hi MJ. There’s something I wanna . . . something I’ve been meaning to tell you . . ._ I’m Spider-Man _. . . although I think you already know that, cos you’re like super smart, and super pretty . . . I mean, that’s not . . . what i'm trying to say is . . ._ I really like you _. Like really_ really _like you. I actually sometimes wonder if I’m in love with you . . .”_

“Damn it,” Peter groans, shaking his head at his rambling reflection and scolds himself, “she’s gonna think you’re the biggest loser ever!”

Although he knows she already does. Tells him so nearly every day.

He looks down at his outfit. It’s not too terrible, he thinks. Clean t-shirt, not too obviously nerdy, freshly pressed pair of chinos, and hair adequately under control. He looks fine except for the blushing cheeks and the terror in his eyes.

He tells himself to suck it up.

“You can do it,” he says aloud, before taking a breath and walking out his apartment and not looking back.

He takes the six flights of stairs and steps out of the building and into the night air.

It’s not actually that late, but the evenings still turn dark fairly early. Summer still feels months and months away.

He walks the distance to MJ’s apartment, using the half-hour stroll to calm his nerves.

Of course, he knows where she lives – and not just from his well-meaning stalking, but because MJ had given both him and Ned her address months ago with a carefree shrug and a _“whatever. Don’t make a big deal. It’s for emergencies.”_

Now this isn’t really an emergency, but Peter’s not sure it matters all that much. Not when he’s about to spill the beans on the biggest secret of his life – they really don’t come much bigger than this – and he’s pretty sure MJ _wants_ him to tell her.

She lives on the second floor of her apartment building. It’s an old build, and it’s evident there in the crumbling, weathered bricks, the rusted metal fencing and of course, MJ’s daily grumbling about broken down elevators and shitty plumbing. There are steps leading up to the front door and Peter takes a breath before pushing down on the correct buzzer and waiting.

Nothing.

Someone opens the door exiting the block, but he dithers too long on whether he should take the opportunity to slip in and misses his chance as it clicks shut again.

He presses the buzzer one more time.

All sorts of thoughts run through his mind.

_Maybe she’s not in?_

_Maybe she’s gone out with Liz or something?_

_Maybe this is a sign he should keep his mouth shut, turn around and leave?_

But then he hears her voice crackling through the static.

_“Hello?”_

“MJ!” His voice comes out in a high-pitched squeak and he blushes like an idiot before clearing his throat and trying again. “MJ, hey!”

Silence. Then: _“Parker?”_

“Yeah it’s me. Can I come up?”

_“Why are you here?”_

He unsticks his tongue. “I wanted to talk.”

_“Look, now’s really not a good time.”_

“Oh,” he says, visibly deflating and the dejection must carry in his voice as he hears her sigh heavily and possibly swear under her breath.

_“Wait there.”_

And then the static buzz is replaced by the distant sound of New York and his thumping heartbeat as he waits.

It’s a few short (and eternally long) minutes before he sees her head emerge in the glass panels of the front door. There’s a frown on her face as she opens the door and steps outside, hovering there with her arms folded across her chest. Peter shifts back dropping down a step, so MJ towers over him.

“Hey,” he says again.

“Hey,” she replies.

Someone in his voice is screaming something’s wrong, to _abort, abort, abort._

He doesn’t realise that that someone is _him_.

“What was so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

Peter looks around, swallows. “Maybe we could go inside? I don’t really think this is a conversation for out here.”

MJ doesn’t shift.

“I mean,” he continues, realising she’s not going to budge, “I think you already know what I’m about to say, but we’re friends. And I really should have told you sooner, but I was scared to –”

He trails off to take a deep, steadying breath in and out.

Now or never.

“MJ, I’m –”

“Peter,” she cuts in – the confession hanging precariously on the tip of his tongue. A defining knife-edge of a moment.

“I really don’t have the time. And honestly, I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t wait, I have to go.”

And the voice screaming that something’s wrong only gets louder. Because sure MJ can be a little dismissive and abrupt sometimes, but _never_ towards her friends and people she cares about, especially when she knows they have something important to say.

“Go where?” he asks.

She doesn’t meet his stare as she answers.

“I have a date.”

_Date._

Confusion looms. He thinks he’s misheard, can’t comprehend what’s happening.

He finally looks at her, takes her in.

The subtle styling of her hair, the red dress covered in a white flower print, hidden under the denim jacket. The bright red Converses to match.

“Oh. You look- you look nice. I’m sorry,” he stumbles back, slipping on the edge of the step behind him but managing to keep his balance. “A date. Wow. Okay. I should have called before turning up. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

No, it’s not. It’s so not fine. But Peter’s struck mute and he can’t say a word.

They hover there for another moment before MJ swallows and smiles tenuously. “Okay, well I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Parker.”

“Yeah. Sure. Bye,” he says, finding his voice as he watches her climb down the stairs and past him. It’s only when her feet hit the sidewalk he remembers to ask.

“Who with?”

“What?”

“You said you had a date. Who with?”

She holds his gaze – a blank, bottomless pit of brown stares back at him.

“Harry.”

He’s too stunned to question it, can barely process it. _Because he knows her._ He knows Michelle Jones and it just _doesn’t make sense._

But she’s already walking away, and the word _why_ dies on his lips.

The all-too familiar sight of her disappearing into the night burns at the back of his eyes.

And Peter feels ill.

Which is no surprise, considering that it’s his heart there.

Right on the ground.

_Bleeding out._

 

))((

 


	8. April 2028; Issue No. 108

 

                                            

 

“Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

MJ doesn’t need to turn around. She knows the _exact_ expression Liz is wearing on her face as she sits there curled up in her favourite armchair. She hasn’t been friends with her for the past twenty years to not have catalogued every intonation of her every expression, to not know that _that_ , right there, _is disapproval._

She made it abundantly clear what she thought about her decision to get back together with Harry when she’d first told her four weeks ago and has made her feelings known every day since.

Of course, MJ doesn’t disagree.

Except, she’s stuck in this cursed hell where she can’t say anything.

Because her gut tells her Harry’s threat had been anything but empty. If the last year has taught her anything, it’s that her (ex-)boyfriend is capable of anything.

But she’s gonna find a way out of this.

Somehow.

Because she’s not the same woman she was back when she first fell so effortlessly into Harry’s trap.

This time she knows exactly who the devil is.

And she can play this game just as well as he can.

It’s what she tells herself anyway – each and every time Harry presses his lips to her cheeks and she resists the urge to stab him in the eye and instead pastes a sickly sweet, fake smile on her face, and carries right on with this farce.

The thing with Harry is, he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t realise she _hates_ him – every atom of his repels hers – but that doesn’t mean he’s not a deluded psycho who thinks he can _change_ her mind.

 _“You’ll see,”_ he’ll mutter under his breath. _“We can get back what we had before. You’ll love me again. You’ll see.”_

There’s something seriously wrong with him, she realises.

She doesn’t know whether it’s _just him_. Whether he’s always had these sociopathic tendencies, or whether there’s something else at play here.

She knows a more empathetic person may try to understand.

_But she just doesn’t care._

Because why should she sacrifice her own freedom, her happiness, her _sanity,_ for the sake of someone who’s done nothing to deserve it?

She’s spent her entire life doing that. For her uninterested, borderline negligent, mom. Her deadbeat, alcoholic dad. For relationships that were always doomed from the start. For Harry freakin’ Osborn.

But then, she knows why she’s doing this.

Because this time, it _is_ for someone deserving.

For someone who deserves the world and then some.

Which is why she’s gonna figure this shit out.

For her and for Peter

Because _fuck Harry Osborn –_ they _both_ deserve better.

And so, it’s with that determination, she turns around and smiles at her best friend as if there isn’t a damn thing to worry about.

“It’s just a dinner party.”

“Another one. Three this week alone. It’s like . . .” she stops and sighs and looks away, and MJ pushes down hard on the guilt because as much as she wants to come clean, she can’t. It’s not her secret to tell.

“Like what?”

“Like he’s trying to isolate you from his friends. I’m just worried about you MJ. I’ve hardly seen you since you got back together with Harry, and I know you said you were giving him a second chance, and I know I’ve said it before, but I’m trying to wrap my head around this. I am. I just –”

There’s tension drawn in every line of her face. Eyes shining bright with worry, pleading at her to talk to her, _please._

 _Soon,_ she promises her silently.

For now, all she can do is heave a sigh and trudge back from where she’s standing at the door, until she’s reaching down to wrap her arms around her best friend and squeeze tight.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s not like before. I promise.”

And that is a truth she can admit to.

Because it really isn’t like before.

This time she’s going in with her eyes wide open.

And Harry Osborn is not going to win.

 

)(

 

Another day.

Another morning.

Another wasted cup of coffee sitting at the corner of MJ’s desk.

Peter doesn’t know why he still does it.

It’s been weeks since that horrible night on the steps of MJ’s apartment, which has left him more bruised and battered than all his New York city altercations put together. But more than that – he’s been left confused, and _worried_ about her, because his initial instincts still stand.

MJ going back to Harry doesn’t make a shred of sense.

And it’s not just his feelings for her (and his still stupidly hopeful heart) that are making him doubt the relationship.

It’s the fact that MJ doesn’t look like a woman in love.

Not that he knows _what_ she looks like when she _is_ in love, but he figures _happy_ is a big part of it.

And she doesn’t look happy.

In fact, she reminds him a lot of the MJ before.

Before Jameson walked into _NY Pulse_ and threatened them with the axing of their publication. Before they joined forces against him and became a team. Before that then evolved into a friendship. And before that friendship then hovered on the precipice for the potential of _something more._

Because he knows he didn’t imagine those reluctant smiles – the ones she often tried to hide away or stop in their tracks with a bite to her lower lip. He didn’t imagine the flicker of her gaze on his face, or the heat of her eyes on his back, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, either. And that’s not forgetting their moment down in the archives what feels like months ago now. That definitely hadn’t been a figment of his attention. Neither had that conversation.

There had been something there between them.

Except that’s all gone now.

It’s been replaced once again by MJ glaring angrily at her computer screen, scowling at anyone who looms too close, and ignoring them altogether.

And he just knows.

Knows there’s more to it.

And so, he doesn’t stop.

Brings her her usual cup of coffee – black, no sugar – and drops it on the corner of her desk every morning as he stumbles in half an hour late, right on schedule.

She ignores it. Never touches it.

Never tosses it aside either.

And _that?_

That gives him hope.

This morning isn’t any different.

It’s been an hour since he left that cup there on the corner of her desk. It’s stopped steaming long ago, and MJ’s gaze hasn’t faltered from her screen once.

Peter sighs, before turning his eyes back to his own screen, but not before he chances a glance at Ned sitting across from him. And sure enough, his best friend is looking back at him with something akin to sadness, tinged with a little anger.

Because it’s not just Peter she’s been giving the cold shoulder.

It’s Ned, too.

And if there’s anyone who deserves it less, it’s Ned Leeds.

Ned shakes his head, and there’s something different glinting in his eyes this morning. Something that looks like stubborn determination. And before Peter can even shake his head and mutter _Ned, no! What the hell are you doing? –_ his friend is crumpling up a wad of paper and throwing it in MJ’s direction.

But as luck would have it, his aim is off – or dead-on depending on how you look at it – and instead of hitting MJ on the back of her head, it strikes the side of her coffee cup.

And it’s like watching a disaster movie unfold in slow-motion as the cup wobbles and lands the wrong side of its tipping point, before giving way to gravity and toppling over, spilling cold coffee all over her already messy desk.

“Fuck!” MJ curses as she pushes herself to stand, chair rolling behind her with the force of the motion, at about the same time Ned whispers a fearful, “oh shit.”

Peter’s out of his chair instantly; instinctively rushing over to help, except he hasn’t got any paper napkins in hand. Only the edge of his t-shirt, and he doesn’t really think as he starts dabbing at her keyboard with it, hoping against hope it’s not damaged.

“What are you doing?”

The sound of her voice aimed directly at him, after all this time, startles him. It speaks to the current state of their relationship. It hadn’t been for lack of trying on his part, but she had effectively shut both Ned and him out – which had only added to his worry.

Others may have been hurt, and part of him was, but he knew what others didn’t.

He knew enough of her history with Harry – all in MJ’s own words – to know in his gut something wasn’t right.

Instinct told him Harry was holding something over her, and the one and only time he’d broached the topic with her, she had snapped her head up and held his gaze, unwavering, and had told him she loved Harry. Period.

He’d stopped trying after that.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want to – had just yet to figure out _how to._

When he finally looks up from where he’s mopping up the mess, it’s to MJ standing surprisingly close. Her eyes are once more that clear, focussed brown. For a moment they seem brighter than usual and he wonders if it’s not a trick of the light.

But it’s her lips too. He swears he notices them twitch, a ghost of an amused smirk there, but then she’s peering down at the desk leaving him with a view of the top of her beautiful, unruly curls instead.

He doesn’t realise exactly what she’s looking at until he feels the unmistakable prod of her finger against the wet, coffee-stained edge of his t-shirt.

“There are such things as paper napkins, you know?”

He swallows.

“Didn’t have any.”

She says nothing but looks up once more. And it feels like forever since he’s stared back into those eyes and not seen the blank, bottomless brown pit he’d first glimpsed on the steps of her apartment that night.

There’s life in them again.

If only for a moment.

Because she’s clearing her throat, taking a step back, and it’s gone.

She glances at her ruined desk.

“It’s kinda rude to throw things.”

If this were _before_ , he’d grin back at her and say something along the lines of “well, we did learn from the best.” But this isn’t before, and all he can do is gape at her as Ned stutters in the background.

“It was me, actually. My fault. Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that . . .”

Peter pivots to find Ned in the background, standing sheepishly in front of his desk, and with his hand raised in apology.

“Pretty decent arm there, Leeds.”

And it _almost_ feels like old times – the gentle ribbing, the smirk on her lips, and it makes him stupidly brave.

“MJ –” he starts to say, but the universe apparently hates him, because Harrington chooses that moment to stick his head out of his door and call out. “Parker. Jones. In here. _Now._ ”

He wonders what Harrington could possibly want to speak to just the two of them about, but its only as he enters the office and sees who’s sitting in that leather chair that he remembers what the whole magazine is supposed to be concentrating on.

Increasing their readership.

And it looks like the boss himself is there to remind them or, more likely, rub their failures and imminent demise in their faces.

It’s never a pleasant surprise (the exact opposite, in fact) to see J. Jonah Jameson in the flesh, but for some reason, that gut-awful sensation is multiplied a hundred times today.

Maybe it’s the fact they were given no warning. Peter’s not sure how the man managed to sneak in without anyone noticing, and from the look on MJ’s face she doesn’t either. It must have something to do with the lack of his usual entourage.

Which, now that he thinks about it, is strange.

With the extra frown lines, mouth twisted into a grimace, he looks his usual stressed self and just as happy to be here as he does with _everything_ else in his life.

Except there’s something very off about him today, and Peter can’t pin it down.

“Mr Parker. Ms. Magazine.”

MJ doesn’t so much as bristle at the slight this time, just manages to give off a cool, bored vibe as she settles into one of the chairs without waiting for the invite to be seated.

Harrington sits off to the side and the poor man is stress personified if the way he’s holding himself is anything to go by.

“I’m sure you both know what this is about?”

It’s clearly a rhetorical question, because he doesn’t wait around for them to answer before he’s launching into his tirade, the artery on his left temple pulsing furiously.

“Abysmal. Absolutely abysmal numbers. Embarrassing. A downright farce! And here I thought you wanted to save this publication! I thought I told you two to wow me with me an article that even the damned Queen of England wouldn’t mind wiping her ass on!”

“We’re still working on it, sir,” Peter mumbles.

All things considered they weren’t doing terribly – they’d managed to exceed their target of a fifty percent increase several times – especially with the Spider-Man features. Their background readership, however, had only stabilised at around a thirty-five percent increase. Which in itself was no small victory or accomplishment, but then Jameson had always set them up to fail with a near impossible target.

“You do realise you only have two months left to rescue this paper from where you’ve buried it six-feet-under?”

Ah yes. The June 2028 deadline.

With everything that had been going on, he’d forgotten about the ticking clock hanging over their heads.

“Mr Jameson, sir –” Peter starts to say, but then the man is sneering at MJ beside him.

“Why? Nothing to say, Miss Jones? You’re unusually quiet today. Accepted defeat, have we?”

“No, it’s just I’d rather not breathe in any more stale air than I need to. Are we done yet?”

Harrington looks like he’s two seconds away from slapping himself in the face, or worse, burying a dagger hilt deep into his chest.

“Your blatant disregard for authority sure is interesting, Miss Jones.” Jameson says, leaning back in his chair, leather squeaking under him. “But then I suppose you think you’re safe given the fact you’re sharing Osborn’s bed again these days.”

Cold, furious anger curls in Peter’s gut as his fingers clench into the armrests. He just about manages to stop himself from leaping over the desk and punching the man in the face.

MJ, on the other, simply continues to sit there.

No reaction.

Nothing at all.

Not even a blink.

It’s eerie.

And it looks like even Jameson’s unnerved by the way his fingers keep fiddling with the edges of his shirt sleeves and cuff-links.

But then he’s been doing that the entire time they’ve been in here.

And that’s what he realises has been off about him.

J. Jonah Jameson wasn’t just stressed. He was frustrated by something. Rattled, maybe.

And his next sentence gives him a clue.

“Let me assure you Miss Jones. Harry Osborn may have his greasy mitts on this company and an agenda he refuses to share, but this company is still _mine_ , and I will not let it go without- _I will not be embarrassed._ Not by you. Or this publication. Either you do the work and make it worthy of the Jameson Inc. name, or it’s gone.”

No one moves. No one says anything.

“And for goodness sake, Parker! Do something about that shirt!” He sneers at him, eyes dragging up and down his stained clothes, before he’s pulling out a cigar from his inner jacket pocket and shooing them away with a wave of his hand.

They don’t need to be told twice.

MJ pushes herself out of her chair first and Peter follows closely behind. But instead of returning to her desk, she keeps on walking, right out of the office and he’s left with Ned and his questioning gaze.

Not that he has any answers.

(Not yet.)

 

)(

 

It’s a surreal feeling, walking out of a meeting with J. Jonah Jameson and feeling an overwhelming sense of calm.

Stranger still is the urge to walk back into Harrington’s office and _hug the man._

Yep.

It’s madness.

Because unbeknownst to that asshole, who usually inspires an unhealthy amount of rage in her veins, he’s actually handed over the ticket to her freedom with a thoughtless slip of his tongue.

In not so many words, Jameson has handed over a vital missing piece of the puzzle.

Because it’s never made sense.

Oscorp’s interest in Jameson, Inc. And vice versa.

She’d told Peter once, down on the dusty floor of the _Daily Bugle’s_ archives, that she’d thought this whole thing (conceited or not) had been about her.

And to a degree, she realises she’s right.

However, as much as getting involved with Jameson, Inc. had been about digging his claws back into her life, for Harry it’s also about power – about showing the world he can do anything, _have anything_ , he pleases.

Because Harry Osborn is that kind of psychotic narcissist.

And Jameson is that kind of proud bastard who hates sharing power – unless of course he has no choice in the matter.

MJ doesn’t know why she’s only seeing it now.

After all, it’s been Harry’s MO this entire time.

_Blackmail._

Harry clearly has something he’s holding over Jameson’s head.

The investment money had simply been smoke and mirrors, because even though his publications have been under financial strain, MJ knows Jameson’s enough of a stubborn son-of-a-bitch that he’d rather go down in flames than sell-out.

That is, unless there’s something more important than his precious publication company at stake.

There’s a story here and MJ knows it.

And it’s not only going to save _NY Pulse._

But her too.

Which is why she doesn’t even turn around as she walks out of the office and into the foyer, past the stainless-steel lettering of _NY Pulse_ and hits the call button on the elevators.

She doesn’t have to wait long before she’s stepping inside the doors, and ignoring the generic, forgettable, elevator music as she follows her hunch down to the ground floor without interruption.

After all, it’s barely hit eleven. No one is leaving their offices for lunch just yet. Which suits her fine, because that means the front reception of the Goodman Building is also empty and she has Bill’s full attention.

“Miss Jones!” He greets her with an eye-crinkling smile and hat askew as it always is. “Your working day over so soon? Or are you hitting the city streets in search of a new, exciting story for us?”

“Something like that.”

Bill’s smile doesn’t falter, although it does look like his eyes cloud over a little in confusion.

“Actually,” she continues, resting her arm along the marble counter top and leaning forwards. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go too far.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Jones. I’m an old man. Brain not as sharp as it used to be. You’ve lost me.”

MJ takes a breath and just blurts it out. There’s no point beating around the bush.

“The missing _Daily Bugle_ cabinet. What happened to it?”

The smile freezes on his face. It’s only a fraction of a second before he’s shaking his head, and MJ can sense the imminent brush-off, and so she gets in there before he can. “I know you know something, Bill. Please.”

“Why is this so important to you?” Bill asks, sighing. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve had this job for as long as I have by minding my own business.”

MJ shakes her head. Curls slipping loose from the haphazard bun at the back of her head, kept in place only by a too-small hair-clip and a blunt pencil skewering through it.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was important.”

He holds her gaze, and she can see the moment his resolve starts to crumble. He huffs out a breath.

“You’re a persistent one, I’ll give you that much.”

He swivels slightly in his chair and rips a page from the notepad in front of him. She can’t see what he scribbles down, and he folds it over before she can catch a glimpse.

“One of these days,” he starts to say as he slides it over to her, “you and Mr Parker are going to cost me my job.”

A faint smile tugs the corner of her lips at the mention of Peter as she remembers their little encounter this morning before the meeting with Jameson. For a moment in time, as she watched the idiot use his (white!) t-shirt to mop up the spill, she forgot all about the hellscape that was once again her life and the fact she shouldn’t even be talking to him. Because something about that moment had been just so inherently _Peter Parker_ that it had made her heart ache.

Because putting someone else first before himself?

It just comes as easy as breathing to him.

It’s why he makes an amazing Spider-Man.

And it’s why she thinks it couldn’t have been anyone else.

“Now Miss Jones, _what was that?”_

For those brief few minutes this morning she’d forgotten to hide her affection and it had slipped through. And from the sly smile on Bill’s face, it looks like she’s doing it all over again.

“What was what?” She schools her expression into one of innocent confusion and indifference. It’s not an easy one to get down right, but she thinks she’s pulling it off.

“That smile right there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. I didn’t think me possibly losing my job was that amusing.”

“It’s not. It’s nothing. Sorry.”

“Hmm,” he breathes out, a definite twinkle in his eye.

But before he can question her any further, there’s the unmistakable ding of the elevator and the announcement that they’d soon have company. And so, MJ takes the opportunity to nod her thanks and leave Bill with a backward wave and a “don’t work too hard!”

“I never do,” is the retort he aims at her retreating back.

It’s only when she’s back sitting at her desk – still a spilt coffee disaster zone – that she finally unfolds the piece of paper in her hand and reads.

It’s an address.

In Queens.

With a date and time.

_This Friday night. 6pm._

_Tomorrow._

Seems like she’ll be getting her answers then.

 

)(

 

MJ didn’t leave them any clues as to where she’d disappeared to.

When she returns twenty minutes later, she simply slips into the room unnoticed by everyone else, and drops into her chair, and proceeds to stare down at a piece of paper half hidden under the edge of her desk.

There’s a subtle shift in her expression at whatever it is she sees but Peter can’t read it any better than he can the note in her hands.

“Dude!” Ned whispers. “You really gotta stop.”

Although, it’s not as if he’s any better – Ned’s been watching her like a hawk since she returned, too. The levels of intrigue were hitting near excruciating now.

But Ned was right.

He’s got to stop obsessing.

With that in mind, he turns back to his blinking cursor and tries to concentrate.

It lasts all of two minutes.

Because right then, out of nowhere and catching him entirely off guard, he’s hit in the jaw by a paper missile.

_“What the –”_

He looks down at the offending object. It’s landed perfectly on his keyboard – a coffee stained paper plane; and if he had to guess, he’d say it was made from the same piece of paper Ned had thrown at MJ earlier this morning.

Peter looks back over at her, but she’s staring intently at her computer screen.

He looks over at Ned, who simply shrugs with wide eyes, just as clueless as he.

But then there’s an IM popping up in the corner of his screen, and he’s holding his breath as he reads.

 **(NYP) M. Jones:** Did you get the file I sent over.

Peter looks over at her once more and holds down two buttons on his keyboard.

 **Peter Parker:**?

She rolls her eyes.

 **(NYP) M. Jones:** Just now. Open it and let me know what you think.

Heart pounding, with no idea what to expect, he unfolds the paper aeroplane. And there written in MJ’s distinct inky scrawl are the words:

_Break room_

_You and Leeds._

_Follow in 5._

He reads over the words again and blinks, before typing once more:

 **Peter Parker:** Sure. Will do.

He watches as she pushes herself out of her chair then and heads this time in the direction of the break room.

“What? What’s going on?” Ned whispers in between their computer screens.

Surreptitiously Peter slips him MJ’s note.

 _“What?”_ he says again, reading over it.

Peter shrugs. “I have no idea.”

But that doesn’t stop either of them from following her instructions to the tee. They wait the allotted five minutes, before Ned (unnecessarily) announces with a loud and not so subtle, “oh man, I’m so hungry! I could do with an early lunch.”

Not that anyone cares or is paying attention as to what either of them are up to.

Sometimes it feels like they’re the only two people here that actually _don’t_ do any work.

Nevertheless, Peter stands and follows with a much quieter and less obvious, “I’ll come with you.”

They find her exactly where she said she’d be – pacing in the break room, arms folded across her chest, anxiety coiling through her entire body. When she spots them, she physically wilts with relief, and waits until they’re both safely within the room before walking over to the door to make sure its firmly closed behind them.

A weird, awkward silence descends once she turns around.

They’re standing in an ipsilateral triangle of sorts – it’s a little too two-on-one – and it feels wrong, and unnatural, and again it just perfectly summarises the last four weeks. Feet shift, eyes flicker from one to another, until finally it’s Ned who breaks first.

 _“Okay!”_ he blows out harshly, hands flying up. “What the hell is going on? And _you?”_ He turns on MJ. “If this is some prelude to a half-assed apology, it better be _good_. Like there better be mountains of candy and promises to buy our lunch for at least a week, no _two_ weeks, in there . . .”

For a moment MJ looks stunned, but then her lips are twisting into a smile and she’s huffing out a laugh.

“God, I’ve missed you Leeds.”

Clearly, Ned hadn’t been expecting that because he gawps at her, and then there’s a very obvious pinkish tint to his cheeks seeping through at the earnestness of MJ’s remark. Peter doesn’t tease him, doesn’t have it in him, because he’s still standing there in a mass of confusion and agonising hope.

He’s waiting for her to put them, _him_ , out of his misery.

“What’s going on, MJ?” he asks.

She shifts her gaze to him before stepping away and leaning back against the counter top, and says without preamble;

_“He knows.”_

The two words rattle around inside his skull as tries to put it altogether. His eyes search hers, and he doesn’t have to look too hard. Because for the first time since he’s known her, MJ’s face is an open book. Every emotion there laid bare – fear, anger, regret, and most hauntingly of all, _guilt._

“Wait, what?” Ned whispers.

MJ breaks her gaze from his and says, “Harry. Harry knows about Spider-Man.”

“Is that –” The words are low, scratchy, barely audible and he has to clear his throat and start all over again because _he understands now_. “Is that why you went back to him?”

She says nothing.

But the answer’s there in her silence. And Peter doesn’t know what he feels: relief, fury, nausea, _too much._ He feels too much.

“So, you’re not in love with him?”

And of all the things he needs to ask, apparently that’s the only one he can think of.

He doesn’t notice Ned’s eyes bugging out of his head at the question. Nope. He’s too busy trying to read every emotion that flits through those bottomless, brown eyes.

She holds his gaze. “No,” she says softly. “I’m not.”

And he’d known it all along, known she’d lied that time she’d said the opposite of what she’s telling him now, but somehow hearing it from her is what he needs to actually believe it.

But relief gives way to anger.

Hot, burning anger.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell us? Tell _me?_ We could have –”

With every question he’s edging closer and closer to her until there’s nothing between them apart from a slither of hot air. MJ’s eyes widen with every step, fists curling tighter and tighter in response, until finally, she explodes.

“Done _what_ exactly, Peter?! You don’t know him like I do, he would have exposed your secret to the world, and maybe he has proof, maybe he doesn’t, but he doesn’t _need_ it. Don’t you get it?! He would have opened up your life to the rest of the world and you know what they’re like? God, we are _them._ Every single news outlet, asshole reporter, would have been camped outside your door, on _May’s_ doorstep, hounding you for every second, of _every_ day! They’re vicious, they would have torn you to shreds and dug up everything about you until they had your mask in their bare hands. I was fucking protecting _you!_ So you don’t get to be mad at me, Peter! _You just don’t.”_

She takes a shuddering breath and he realises now that she’s shaking with just as much suppressed rage and he, like a pin in a balloon, deflates instantly – because he realises two things in that moment.

One with crystal clarity, and that is: there’s only one person who’s justified in their anger.

_And it’s her._

And the second?

Well, that’s a deep hazy feeling growing warm in his chest – unnameable because it’s a heady mix of so many – gratitude, awe, disbelief and something else which urges him to take that final step between them, everything else around them disappearing to nothing.

There’s a split second of confusion warring in those red-rimmed eyes, but he tears his own eyes away and pulls her into a hug before he loses his nerve.

His arms come around her shoulders, and slouched as she is leaning against the counter, they’re almost the same height as his hands get tangled in the loosened curls at the base of her neck, and the other presses into her lower back pulling her closer.

For a moment she just stands there, frozen, and then he feels it – another shuddering breath as she finally lets go and melts into him. Her own hands press into his back as she buries her head in his neck and breathes out once more as he takes his own trembling breath in. The faint scent of her shampoo reaches him as her soft curls tickle his nose. He can feel every rise and fall of her chest against his own and he tightens his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her neck and of course he hears it, _feels it_ , a hot brush of air from her lips against his own skin as she laughs and shakes her head like he’s an idiot.

And for her, _he is._

“Okay, I uh hate to be the one to do this,” Ned says then, slowly, carefully, and quite effectively ending the moment, “because this is, uh, this is . . .” He clears his throat, clearly at a loss for words. “But I have a question . . .”

Reluctantly, Peter pulls away and he can feel his cheeks burning and doesn’t dare look back at MJ, certainly doesn’t miss the way she bites into her bottom lip and avoids his gaze as well.

“Why are you telling us now?”

And apparently, it’s exactly what she needs to re-focus as a determined expression settles on her face then.

“Because I’m not the only one he’s blackmailing.”

“Who?” Ned asks.

But it’s Peter who answers as it suddenly dawns on him.

“Jameson. He has something on Jameson. Doesn’t he?”

MJ nods. “How do you –”

“The meeting. There was something off about him. I sensed it but couldn’t figure it out.”

“What does he have on him?” Neds asks the salient question, yet again.

“I don’t know, but that’s what I’m gonna find out. Bill knows something, and he’s agreed to talk to me tomorrow night at his place. And you boys are coming with me.”

“We are?” Neds asks, looking from MJ to Peter and back again.

But Peter’s eyes are fixed on MJ and despite everything, there’s still a little doubt peeking through the determined glint in hers.

Doubt, he realises, about them.

He banishes it with two words.

_“We are.”_

 

)(

 

It’s a weird feeling.

Being able to breathe again after realising she hadn’t been.

Not for those long few weeks, anyway.

It’s such a godawful cliché, but she genuinely feels lighter having shared her burdens. There’s a bitter aftertaste to it all, though. The little niggling feeling at the back of her mind, clamouring to be heard, yelling that it’s not over. Not by a long shot. Not yet.

She thinks it might be the voice of reason.

She chooses to ignore it.

And tries to enjoy the moment for however long it’ll last.

When Peter walks into the office the following morning and drops the usual cup of coffee on the corner of her desk, this time – after weeks of painstakingly ignoring the gesture – she allows herself to pick it up. She doesn’t wait until he’s sitting in his chair either to say, _“thanks Parker.”_ The bashful grin on his face, together with the blushing cheeks, reminds her of that moment right after _the_ hug. Her body is still humming with the way her heart had thumped in her chest wrapped up in his arms. It had been a nice place to be.

She wants to be there again.

Faking smiles at Harry is wearing thin.

But hopefully, tonight, she’ll be one step closer to never having to do it again.

The work day drags on, and instead of writing, she spends most of that time clock-watching and throwing scrunched up post-it notes across the room, sticking her middle finger up at Ned’s scowl and allowing her heart to flutter at Peter’s dopey smile, while revelling in the simple fact that she can.

They stagger their exits from the office when the clock on the far wall hits 5pm and agree to meet at the address. She hovers on the street corner, and thankfully doesn’t have to wait too long – Peter, for once in his life, managing to be on time.

Bill’s house is pretty much the same as the rest of them on the street – the only detail setting it apart from the rest being what he’s chosen to do with his tiny front garden. With what small space there is, he’s planted a flower bed and in the fading daylight, the pink and violet sweet peas climbing the trellis on the wall have taken on a golden hue and the pretty fragrance hits her nose just as they step up to his door.

It opens before she can even ring the bell. Bill stands in the doorway with a cautious smile, his eyes flickering between the three of them, clearly having not expected both Peter and Ned to be tagging along.

“Miss Jones. I see you’ve brought some friends.”

“Hi Bill.” And at his careful expression, and reluctance to move from the doorway and invite them in, MJ steps closer and says, imploring him to believe her, “you can trust them.”

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” he retorts after a moment, before stepping aside to usher them in, shaking each of their hands in turn. “Come in. Come in. I’m just surprised you’re doing the right thing and not going it alone.”

He walks them through into the living room.

“The missus is out. She’s baby-sitting the grandkids – it’s our daughter and her husband’s anniversary – they’re having a night out on the town, while Nan spoils the kids rotten.”

MJ smiles. She notices the photos propped up on the mantelpiece as she walks into the living room. It’s small, cluttered and reminds her a little of how she grew up. The difference being the room is warm and it’s filled with years of love and stories built from the little knick-knacks scattered everywhere. They’re there in the knitted blanket draped over the back of the chair, the reading glasses abandoned on top of a folded newspaper, and in the little wine stain half hidden under the leg of the coffee table.

She loves it.

“Please sit.”

The three of them naturally take the three-seater with Ned in the middle, while Bill takes the armchair across from them. It’s a little strange seeing him in this setting, out of his uniform and hat, but the kind smile is still there, and it puts her at ease.

“Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something a little stronger, maybe?” He says the last waving a glass of already poured whiskey in his hand.

“No that’s okay, thank you,” Ned answers politely and then with impeccable manners. “You have a lovely home.”

Bill smiles. “Thank you, Mr Leeds.” Before turning to MJ. “But you’re not here to pay an old man compliments. You’re here for answers. I’m not sure I have all of them, but I can certainly try.”

MJ nods, leaning forwards, happy to get straight into it.

“The cabinet? What happened? Why was it moved?”

Bill raises an amused brow. “You’re jumping in at the wrong end of the story, Miss Jones.”

He takes a sip of his drink and sighs.

“Do you know, back in the day, Mr Jameson and Norman Osborn were old school friends?”

MJ shakes her head.

“No? Well they were what you kids call these days _BFFs_.”

At their expressions, he chortles. “I have grandkids, got to find some way to talk them. It’s a whole new language I’m learning, I tell you. Anyway, I’m sure you know of all the rumours?”

“Rumours?” Peter asks.

“Oh you know, the ones that speak of Jameson’s, ahh should we say, lack of gentlemanly behaviour towards the fairer sex? And that’s not, of course, ignoring the multitude of affairs?”

“They’re not rumours,” MJ says without missing a beat. “It’s just people still have a hard time taking the word of victims over those in positions of power.”

“Exactly right, Miss Jones. Exactly right,” he nods with a pointed finger, drink still in hand. “There’s truth in every one of those rumours. And back in 1998, there was proof of it too.”

MJ edges forward, hands grazing the top of the coffee table.

“What do you mean?”

“Jameson wasn’t popular with a lot of folk –”

“I wonder why . . .” Ned snorts.

“And he made himself some enemies – including one particular investigative journalist at the _Daily Bugle._ And well, he’d managed to get quite a few women to come forward, ready to tell their side of the story.”

“Who was he? The journalist?”

“His name was Ben Urich.”

The name is familiar. Very familiar.

“Ben Urich,” MJ repeats, and then: “ _New York Bulletin_ , Ben Urich? _Battle of New York_ , Ben Urich? The one who was murdered by the Kingpin?”

“Yes. Very sad and horrific business.”

MJ remembers it all vaguely – of course she’s read up on all the details since, but she’d still only been in middle school when it had happened. And she’s read enough about Ben Urich to know he was a man of principle – he wouldn’t have let the truth about Jameson go without a fight.

“What happened?” she asks, but then she remembers what Bill had said, right at the start, as he’d set the scene for his tale. “It was Norman Osborn, wasn’t it?”

Bill nods.

“Jameson went to Norman for help – I don’t know what he did but he squashed the article and forced Ben to resign. I can only imagine how.”

“But how does it all fit in – with the cabinet, the missing paper?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know, Miss Jones. Like I said, I don’t have all the answers you’re seeking. But if I had to hazard an educated guess, a man with dirt like Jameson is not without paranoia – I think he may have thought a copy of that article, or the evidence, still existed somewhere. That it could be used against him, and he has many enemies, though I don’t know why it wasn’t until a few months ago he felt the need to look for it again.”

MJ thinks she knows.

It’s about the same time Harry started up the talks between Oscorp and Jameson, Inc.

“So, he was the one who had the cabinet removed?”

“He was.”

“And the article?”

Bill shrugs. “If it exists, or is only a figment of Jameson’s paranoid imagination, I don’t know.”

The information sits there in the still air amongst them, each of them taking a minute to digest what they’ve been told and piece it together.

“I’ve answered your questions, Miss Jones,” Bill says finally, breaking the silence. “I’d be grateful if you could answer one of my own?”

MJ nods. “Sure.”

“Why? Why is this important? I understand the kind of man Mr Jameson is, but taking him down is a futile effort given so many have tried and failed.”

“And so, what? He should be allowed to get away with it?”

Bill sighs. He drops his glass onto the coffee table and settles back in his armchair. “No, I think the son-of-a-bitch needs to be taken down a few pegs, but if this is about saving _NY Pulse_? I’m not sure removing him from the company will work. There’s still the board of directors who also have sway in the decision-making to think about.”

“It’s not about that. Well, maybe a little,” MJ answers, not really sure about how much she should say.

Bill’s gaze is assessing, unwavering with a glimmer of concern. Away from the austere lighting of the front foyer of the Goodman Building and the deep mahogany panelling, there’s a softness to his edges, and MJ can easily envisage the grandfather sitting before her.

“Well, whatever it’s about,” he says finally, “promise me the three of you will be careful? Mr Jameson’s still a powerful man, especially with the Osborn name behind him.”

MJ nods, and manages to keep her expression as neutral as possible so not to give away the fact he got that last bit so very wrong.

Maybe when Norman had been alive, yes.

But Jameson was definitely paying for the sins of the father now.

They didn’t have all the answers, but slowly the photograph was starting to come into focus, they just needed to sharpen some of the details.

Which is where, MJ knows, the next step comes in.

“So what now?” Peter asks, as they make their way back down the street, heading for the nearest subway station.

They had declined Bill’s offer to stay for dinner, leaving him instead with a wave on his doorstep, profuse thanks for his time and hospitality, and a promise once again to tread carefully.

“Well now, you’re gonna get Jameson to flip.”

Peter furrows his brow, clearly picking up on the _you_ and not _we_ in that sentence. She knows he’s wondering how this all helps her, helps them _both_ , get Harry off their backs.

MJ can see the question clearly across his face.

“We know what Harry’s potentially got against him now, but something tells me it’s not the full story. Jameson’s terrified of something – if it’s Harry himself, or whatever he knows, or _something else_ – I don’t know. But if we can get him to crack, to talk, to tell us something, _anything,_ we can use against Harry – it’s a start.”

It’s flimsy and not very much but it’s all they have, and she can tell Peter knows it. There’s just one problem.

“What makes you think he’ll talk to me?”

“He won’t,” MJ shrugs, before her lips split into a familiar smirk just before they reach the street corner and go their separate ways. _“But something tells me he’ll talk to Spider-Man.”_

 

))((

 


	9. May 2028; Issue No. 109

 

                                            

 

J. Jonah Jameson is a man of habit and a stickler for time.

He never leaves his house without his Cuban cigars tucked safely inside his inner left breast pocket.

Six.

There are always six cigars neatly lined up in the antique silver case with its old Celtic design engraved around the edges. It was his father’s, apparently – an old Jameson family heirloom handed down through generations.

He takes his mid-morning coffee break at 11am sharp, every day.

There are always three sugar cubes sitting in the pot beside the cold milk, two already dissolving at the bottom of his cup. His coffee tray must be accompanied by a neatly folded copy of the _Daily Bugle_ – the first printed issue, hot off the presses and ink barely dry. Although, it’s worth noting, he only ever manages to read the headline article before his coffee cup is empty, and he’s yelling at his P.A. through the intercom for his messages.

The rest of his day usually unfolds in the following pattern: meetings, lunch, yell at an intern, meetings, fire a random, poor soul who’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and then more meetings. Of course, they’re never actually fired – HR have hired some damn good lawyers to smooth over any creases and protect against any potential unfair dismissal or harassment lawsuits. Of which, there have been many. All hushed up and swept away – neatly, efficiently – under the expensive, Persian rugs in his office.

And most days, he’s done by 6pm.

Except on Wednesdays.

Because Wednesday evenings belong to his fourth (and current) wife and her weekly book club which is just a flimsy excuse to have her snobby-nosed, botoxed to their eyeballs, rich frenemies over for wine, cheese and gossip.

And so, J. Jonah Jameson pretends to have actual work to do on those Wednesdays; alternately spending the evening between his office drinking whisky and smoking with his old pals or at one of the many exclusive gentleman’s clubs in New York City of which he’s probably founder or honorary member or both.

On the Wednesday nights he spends in his office, he’s usually done with his guests by 8pm. After showing them to his door, he heaves his coat on over his three-piece suit, sticks his hat over his head, before placing his last cigar firmly between his lips, and orders his encumbered P.A. to call for his car.

 _“And_ that’s _your window,”_ MJ says. _“Right before he calls it a night.”_

They’re sitting in a corner of a busy coffee shop several blocks from the Goodman Building. It’s past the lunch hour rush but there are still a decent amount of people milling about, and Peter’s keeping all senses on alert for anyone listening or watching too closely. No one back at the office batted an eyelid – not with the excuse that they’re taking a working lunch to research _The Story_ that’s gonna save all their asses. The fact that Ned tags along is just par for the course. Nothing unusual.

Funny how it’s actually the truth.

Just not the _whole_ truth.

Because MJ’s still not convinced Harry doesn’t have eyes and ears in _NY Pulse,_ or if not that, then he’s definitely got someone watching her computer and emails. She has no proof, but she says it’s a gut feeling and it’s a feeling that hasn’t steered her wrong so far, and so, of course he trusts it too.

It’s been over a fortnight since their chat with Bill and they’ve been trying to come up with the best possible plan for tackling Jameson and getting him to talk. It needs tact and precision, and as much as Peter had been ready to swing into Jameson’s bedroom and outright confront him, web-shooters at the ready, he knows MJ had been right to roll her eyes and stop him.

 _“We need to be smart about this,”_ she’d said.

Because he needs to ask the right questions.

And he needs to do it at the right time.

With little risk of getting interrupted.

And certainly without Harry catching wind.

And so, they’d let MJ do her digging and turns out she’s pretty damn good at it too.

“How do you know all this?” he asks with wide eyes after listening to MJ divulge Jameson’s daily itinerary in scary detail.

“Because I’m a damn good investigative journalist when Harrington’s not burying me in puff pieces, or you know,” she shrugs, “when I can actually be bothered.”

“Yeah, I think it’s more of the latter,” Ned says with an amused grin.

And Peter’s inclined to agree with him. Harrington’s only ever given her a handful of crappy assignments. He respects (or fears) her too much to do it more than once every three months, but apparently even one’s too many for her.

MJ flips Ned the bird in retort.

Ned just grins wider.

And Peter realises they’re getting completely off the point here, as he prompts her again with the same question.

“MJ? How do you know all of this?”

She turns those dark brown eyes on him then and _man,_ he finds himself thinking (and not for the first time) _they’re something else_. He has to physically wrench his gaze away before he gets sucked in and drowns, but then looking at her lips probably isn’t any safer.

_Too late._

He’s looking now, and she’s smirking at him.

It’s a little self-congratulatory (and why the hell not?) as she leans forward across the table and explains. “So, turns out Jameson’s P.A. hates the guy –

“What a shock,” Ned interjects, the words muffled into his coffee cup.

“ – and,” MJ continues, “is quite happy to rail on her boss when she’s three sheets to the wind.”

“You got her hammered?” Peters asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“ _No_ ,” MJ reels back, offended. “We both knocked back a few drinks and let off some steam about the asshole men in our lives.”

For a split second, Peter wonders if she includes them in that, and he must do an awful job of hiding it because MJ is rolling her eyes at the both of them.

“Harry,” she says. “I’m talking about _Harry_. Did you seriously . . . ? Of course you did. You guys are idiots. You know that, right? I love you, but you’re idiots.”

And Peter shakes his head, a smile tilting the corners of his lips until it freezes halfway there, because, wait a minute. Back up. Rewind.

And . . . _yep._

Yep, she definitely said _that._

Because Ned is also staring at her with wide eyes and reddening cheeks, and MJ just carries on oblivious.

_Except._

Except, she’s not oblivious to the slip of her tongue. Not by the way she’s rambling about how Jameson’s P.A. totally spilled the beans on every detail of his diary this week and isn’t meeting any one of their eyes as she does.

But then, the cynical, both feet firmly planted in reality, part of him knows she meant it _as friends._

So, it’s settled then.

She feels the same way about him as she does Ned.

And that’s fine.

That’s great.

That’s wonderful.

And –

“Did you just hear what I said?”

“Huh? What? Sorry, I uh missed that last part.”

“Tonight. It’s gotta be tonight, Peter. Jameson’s planning to leave the city tomorrow for some conference in Baltimore. And then, straight after that, he and his wife are jetting off to Fiji for two weeks. We can’t wait that long.”

And what Peter hears is this:

_I can’t wait that long._

Because he can see it – the toll Harry’s ultimatum is taking on her, and she’s barely hanging on.

_For him._

She’s doing it for him, and that still blows his mind, and if he wasn’t already in love with her, he thinks that that would do it.

He resists the urge to reach across the table and squeeze her hand. Instead he nods and agrees;

“Fine, tonight. I’ll get him to talk tonight.”

 

)(

 

“Hey babe, what do you fancy? Thai? Chinese? Indian?”

“Anything you want,” MJ answers Harry, watching him as he stares distractedly down at his phone in the middle of his kitchen. She tries not to shudder in disgust at the endearment that falls from his mouth. She’s been getting better at hiding the instinctive response, but she thinks it kills a small part of her inside to pull it off, each and every time.

But hopefully, it won’t be for very much longer.

Because tonight is the night they’re one step closer to freedom.

She resists the urge to look down at her own phone for any updates from Ned, and instead settles back on the couch and points the remote at the huge ultra-HD flat screen on the wall as a diversion.

Harry’s penthouse suite is insane.

It’s all open-planned, glass and steel, modern, chic, obnoxiously trendy, cold, impersonal and makes her skin crawl. So, it takes some effort and damn good acting on her part to appear cosy, relaxed and totally at ease in his living space.

“I still think it would be nice to go out for dinner.”

“And I’d rather stay in,” MJ says, eyes not straying from the TV screen and whatever dumb reality show is currently playing on there. “I’ve been to how many of your dinner parties now? It’s my turn to choose.”

“I thought you liked those?” There’s a hard edge to Harry’s voice now, and MJ treads as carefully as she can.

“In all the time we’ve been together, when have you ever known me to like them?”

She doesn’t turn around, but she can sense him hovering behind the couch, before he lets out a sigh and backs down. “Okay fine.”

She breathes out and twists herself around to face him. “Okay,” she smiles, and it’s _fake, fake, fake_ , but she doesn’t care. Because this is for Peter. And god, she hopes he’s okay. “Thai. I’d like Thai.”

Harry nods, presses his hand to her shoulder, caressing the back of her neck with his thumb as he does, and MJ can’t help but tense under his fingertips. If he notices, she doesn’t know because he’s stepping away with his phone to his ear.

MJ watches him walk to the other end of the room, before giving in to the urge she’s had all evening and picks up her own.

It flashes blue at the top of the screen.

She swipes to read the incoming message.

It’s from Ned.

**We’ve started on the article.**

**Hopefully have something soon.**

She breathes out, slips the phone into the pocket of her jeans and sends a silent prayer up.

_Come on, Peter._

 

)(

 

Although Spring’s been a little late to arrive this year, it’s warmed up nicely over the month and as daylight lasts a little longer every evening, it’s given New Yorkers no reason to complain.

Not that Peter had any reason to complain in the first place.

His Spider-Man suit does a pretty good job of keeping him nice and dry, snug and warm, come rain or shine.

Which is especially handy this evening as he sits and lies in wait for Jameson.

He’s been perched here, out of sight, on the balcony jutting out from Jameson’s over-large and spacious office for the past hour and there’s now a distinct chill in the air if the way people down below have been wrapping their coats a little tighter and turning up their collars is anything to go by. Yes, he knows MJ had told him 8pm is when he usually calls it a day, but he figures being early is never a bad thing.

In any case, he has to be absolutely sure Ned has managed to get Jameson’s P.A. out of the way.

From where’s he’s sitting, he has a good view of the back of Jameson’s head where he’s reclining in his chair behind his desk. Although Peter gets a full view of the other man in the room – a presumed old friend – he doesn’t recognise him. He wonders if he’s not another Jameson Inc. board member, he certainly looks like he could be. But it doesn’t really matter because Peter’s not interested in him – he’s interested in whether Jameson’s P.A. has left her desk and whether Ned’s ruse worked.

His genius friend managed to hack the network and send an official looking email on behalf of the payroll department asking that Miss Buckley see them urgently about a tax discrepancy.

Peter feels a little guilty but convinces himself it’s for the greater good.

And when Jameson’s friend gets up to leave and the door of his office ekes open, giving him a good view of the empty desk in the reception area, Peter sends his best friend a mental high-five.

He watches as Jameson turns away after shutting the door and walks back towards his desk, grabbing his coat as he does, and slipping his last cigar out of its case before pressing down on the intercom to yell.

“Joyce! Get them to bring my car around, now!”

A second, and then another, ticks by, and _nothing._

Peter stands up from where he’s crouching and moves out of the shadows. He leans back against the balcony’s ledge and faces the glass doors head on, so that if Jameson were to turn around right then he’d see Spider-Man, casually standing there, front and centre. He bends slightly to pick up a small pebble from one of the decorative plant pots sitting in the corner, and then folds his arms across his chest, and props one foot up with a bent knee. He then changes his mind a split second later and switches position, spreading his arms out behind him as he leans back instead, before taking a breath and throwing the stone at the glass doors.

The resulting thud is loud enough to catch Jameson’s attention, as his head jerks up in the middle of yelling for his P.A. again and threatening imminent firing.

Peter watches as he turns around on the spot slowly, and it’s pure comedy seeing Jameson’s eyebrows hike up his forehead, precious cigar falling from his lips as his mouth gapes open.

There’s no anger though.

Just a little fear.

And well, Peter hadn’t expected _that._

All this time he’d thought the man just hated him, but it looks like he’s a little afraid of him, too.

And he doesn’t like it.

Doesn’t like it at all.

As much as he doesn’t care for Jameson, he never wants to inspire fear in anyone. That’s not who Spider-Man is, or what he stands for.

Still, just this once, he thinks it could possibly work in his favour.

He steps forward and easily slides the doors open, watching as Jameson takes a step back bumping into the edge of his desk as his hand reaches blindly for his phone.

But Peter’s quicker as he shoots out some webbing, sticking the handset down in place.

Jameson snaps his hand away, warily watching on as Spider-Man circles the desk, before he plops himself down in the seat across from him. He then lifts his legs up onto the desk, resting them on today’s copy of the _Daily Bugle_ , and crossing them at the ankles with the kind of nonchalance that’s sure to piss him off.

It certainly does the trick though. Fear melts into anger, and the seething expression on his face is definitely one Peter’s better equipped to deal with.

After all, it’s the one he’s most familiar with.

“What do you want?” Jameson barks out.

“I just wanna talk,” he shrugs.

Jameson eyes him sceptically, before grunting, “I stand by every piece we’ve ever published about you! You’re just a thug dressed in tights! Like all the rest of them! And I guess it was only time before you showed your true colours! I’ll have you done for breaking and entering, just you watch!”

“Tights?” Peter frowns, looking down at his suit. Apparently, of everything Jameson’s just hurled at him, that’s the only thing that’s stuck. “I’m not wearing tights!”

Jameson ignores him and asks one more time through gritted teeth. “What. Do. You. Want? Start talking, or I’m calling security!”

“Go ahead,” Peter says, pointing to the webbed phone, before adding, “and I wouldn’t bother with your panic button either. Think you’ll find all your men are down on the fifth floor.”

“The fifth floor? Payroll? Why are they . . . ?”

“You, Mr Jameson, sir, should really pay your staff more.”

Jameson literally growls as he steps forward but Peter doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he reassures with hands outstretched. “I don’t even know why you’d think so. Even with all the _Daily Bugle_ vitriol you’ve been spewing, and the smear pieces, it really doesn’t bother me enough to want to hurt you. And even _you_ have to admit, I’ve never hurt anyone. Not deliberately.”

“Okay, alright,” Jameson finally concedes with a huff as the words sink in. He takes a step back and sits down slowly in his chair, beady eyes never once leaving his masked ones. “You’ve got five minutes, Spider-Man. Start talking.”

“I’m not your enemy,” Peter says and stops, and waits.

And Jameson waits, too. Waits for more, and when no more is forthcoming, he barks with incredulous laughter. “ _Is that it?_ That all you wanted to say to me?”

“I’m not your enemy,” Peter says again, before adding, _“but Harry Osborn is.”_

It’s kind of impressive how the colour drains from Jameson’s face at those words, which tells him there and then that they’re right about this whole thing.

Surprising though is how he doesn’t deny it or even attempt to laugh it off as if he’s spewing nonsense.

No. He simply releases a heavy breath and says, “don’t you think I know that, kid?”

“Then why are you still working with him?” Peter asks.

Jameson reaches inside his jacket pocket and retrieves his silver cigar case, opens it, only to find it empty. His last cigar is still somewhere on the floor where he’d dropped it. Irritated, he chucks the case onto his desk. “Something tells me you already know.”

“What does he have on you, Jameson?”

He laughs. And it’s angry and mean. “Nothing! Nothing because it’s all lies. There’s no proof and there never will be.”

 _Again_ is what Peter hears at the end of that sentence though it’s not spoken aloud. With Ben Urich dead, and the evidence buried as far as Jameson knows, he can understand why he’d believe that. But then it doesn’t make sense. If he believes there’s no evidence, then why is he so rattled?

“If that’s true then why are you still working with him?”

“Why do you care?”

He has to be careful here, so he doesn’t give himself away. “Because, there are good people who work here, and they don’t deserve to be pawns in whatever game you’re playing.”

“There is no game. I care about my people.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

Jameson looks away with a shake of his head.

“No, seriously,” Peter continues, “you should pay them more.”

“And how do you know how much I pay them?” Jameson bats back, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes as he leans forward in his seat, and _crap._

_Crap. Crap. Crap._

Peter steadies his breathing and tries to bring the conversation back around to his advantage.

“You didn’t answer my question. If he has nothing on you, then why are you working with him?”

Peter doesn’t really think he’ll answer; thinks Jameson will just throw another question back in his face, following the pattern that this conversation has seemed to have settled into. So, when Jameson looks back at him steadily, hands folding across his chest as he leans back in his seat once more, Peter really isn’t expecting him to say what he does next.

Which is this:

_“Because he’s threatening to kill my son.”_

It takes longer than it should to compute. The words resounding inside his skull. Softly first, then louder and louder until they’re a screaming jackhammer.

“And what,” Peter clears his throat, before starting over. “And what makes you think he’d do it?”

“Because,” Jameson sighs and says slowly, “ever since Norman died, he’s not the same boy I watched grow up. He’s got the devil in him, and his horns aren’t red, _they’re green_.”

It’s a sick feeling that grows in his stomach, as understanding dawns at just what Jameson’s implying. Questions of _how_ and _why_ whirl around in his gut; denial adds itself to the nauseating mix because how can he be sure?

“He’s the Green Goblin?” Peter says – the words ring loudly into the silence, more question than statement, part wishing it’s not true.

Jameson eyes him carefully, before confirming the horrible truth with yet another question. “But you already knew that, Spider-Man, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he gulps, and wonders if he’s lying when he adds, _“I knew that.”_

Because, maybe, a part of him, deep down and buried, always had.

“So,” Jameson says then, leaning forwards once more and steepling his hands under his chin in a very familiar gesture, _“what are you going to do about it?”_

 

)(

 

They’re halfway through a stupid movie (she’s definitely not watching) when MJ feels the incessant vibration of her cell phone in the pocket of her jeans.

The buzzing noise it makes is loud enough and enough of a distraction for Harry to peel his eyes off the screen and look down at her.

The irritation is set there in his tensed jaw as he asks, “who keeps calling you?”

“I don’t know,” MJ answers, keeping her gaze resolutely on the screen. Someone just blew something up on screen and she couldn’t care less. She _needs_ to know Peter’s okay, and something tells her it’s him on the other end of the phone, and that _worries_ her.

Because he wouldn’t risk calling unless it’s important.

Harry sighs beside her. His expression shifts into something a little sad and resigned – possibly even a little guilty, but MJ thinks, no _knows_ , she must be imagining things. But then, he says:

“You know, I’m not holding you here prisoner?”

And she doesn’t know why she says it. Knows she shouldn’t, but it slips easily from her lips and she can’t hold them back.

“Aren’t you?”

Harry looks away. Eyes fixed once more on the TV screen.

“Take the phone call, MJ.”

She does.

Standing up, she wanders over to the kitchen. Leans up against the centre island and pulls out her phone.

Peter’s name lights it up, and she frowns down at it. Panic building with every unanswered ring.

She swipes right.

“Hey,” she says, carefully, keeping her voice light and neutral.

_“Listen. MJ. You need to get out of there, right now. I can explain. In person. But I need you to go home. Now.”_

“Is everything okay?” she asks, and hopes Peter knows what she’s _really_ asking.

He does.

_“I’m fine. I just need you to go home, sit tight and wait for me. Can you do that?”_

“Oh no, that’s awful. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

She can hear him breathe out heavily. A sigh of relief, undoubtedly, before she continues. “No, it’s fine. I’m sure.” And then a little louder, “no. Of course, he won’t mind, Liz. I’ll see you soon.”

She ends the call and turns around to find Harry watching her, arm resting along the top of the sofa, head turned in her direction.

“Everything okay?”

“Actually, no. That was Liz. She’s had a massive argument with her boyfriend tonight and she’s really upset about it –”

“I didn’t know Liz had a boyfriend.”

_Shit._

“Uh yeah. It’s fairly new. But she was sure, you know?”

“Right.”

She continues to stand there awkwardly, phone in hand, waiting for freakin’ permission and she _hates_ every second of it.

“Of course you should go,” Harry finally says. “But let me call a car for you.”

“No, no you don’t need to do that. It’s fine, I’ll get an Uber.”

“Why?” he asks and doesn’t expand. The rest of the question evident in his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

It’s crazy how quickly his expression can morph, and how insidiously psycho Harry starts to creep through the calm, charming façade he puts on display for the rest of the world to see.

“Take the car,” he says again, and there’s no room for argument.

“Thanks,” MJ relents.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge her acquiescence – expected as it is. Simply turns around and makes the call for his driver to bring one of his cars around to the front of the building.

He walks her down and out onto the street and MJ doesn’t fight him on it, unwilling to engage in the futility of arguing.

He kisses her on the cheek outside the open door of the black sedan and MJ masks the shudder for a shiver with the serendipitous light gust of wind that passes over them in that moment.

“Rain check, tomorrow night?” he asks her as she slides into the back of the car.

“Sure.”

The car door shuts and Harry’s face disappears from view as they drive away, but the knot that’s settled in her chest since Peter called doesn’t ease. Thankfully, the drive is short – the traffic on the roads surprisingly light for the time of night, and the shortcuts probably help somewhat as well.

When they arrive outside her building and the car rolls to a stop, she opens the door before Harry’s driver has the opportunity to climb out and do it for her.

“Good night, Miss Jones,” he says to her with a nod and a tilt of his cap.

MJ nods back. “Night.”

He doesn’t drive off until she’s safely inside, but something tells her he’ll be driving around the block once, twice, before returning to park further down the street and not move for another two hours at least as he keeps watch on the front of the building.

Harry’s orders, no doubt.

She takes the stairs and it’s as she reaches their apartment that she realises Liz is home tonight. She knows this as she slides the key into the lock and music seeps through the slight gap under the front door, light spilling out into hallway.

“Hey,” she smiles up at her as she walks in. She’s curled up in her usual chair, socked feet tucked under her legs as she balances her laptop on her thighs. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah,” MJ smiles tiredly back at her. “Wasn’t feeling great, so called it a night.”

Liz frowns. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No,” MJ shakes her head. “Just need to sleep it off. I’ll be okay.”

Liz doesn’t look entirely convinced, concerns about Harry and her relationship playing across her face. She never had been a very good poker player. She also knows when to push and when not to.

“Just shout if you need anything.”

MJ nods and slips into her room with a “thanks” and closes her door softly shut behind her. She can still hear the beat of Liz’s music playing in the background – it’s a soft, steady hum and she doesn’t mind it and Liz knows her well enough to know that and so doesn’t turn it off.

She collapses onto her bed, feet dangling off the edge, and waits.

She figures Peter’s smart enough to not try and come through the front door given the strong likelihood of Harry watching her like a hawk most days, and she’s proven right five minutes later with the gentle rap at her bedroom window.

MJ pushes herself up and hurries over to lift the latch and push the window up and open. But, there’s no one there.

Sticking her head out she’s met with the cool, crisp night air and the distant sound of the city – honking horns, and people out enjoying their evenings.

And then suddenly there he is.

Masked face in full view.

Except he’s upside down, eyes at mouth level and she can’t help the quiet burst of laughter that leaves her lips, as her mouth curves into a smile.

_What a dork._

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she whispers back.

He’s ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

“What are you doing?”

“Rescuing you,” he jokes, but she can sense the tension underlying the words and remembers the barely restrained panic when he’d called her earlier.

“What’s going on?”

“We need to talk.”

“So talk.”

Peter breathes out a huff of laughter and she can just imagine his face under the mask and feels her heart (annoyingly and involuntarily) flutter at the image. “Not here.”

And yeah, it makes sense. What with him hanging outside her bedroom window upside down, her best friend only a few metres behind a closed door, and Harry’s sharks circling below; so really, she should have known what he was going to say next.

After all, the only way to go was _up._

“Where?”

“Ned’s waiting for us back at my apartment.”

“And how exactly are we getting there?” she asks, knowing full well the answer.

Peter flips himself around and swings down onto her window ledge. MJ takes a step back to let him inside.

It’s dark in her room, but she can see him clearly. Tinged in blue light as he steps towards her and into a shaft of moonlight. He stretches out a hand and MJ watches the way his muscles move and tauten under his suit.

“Ever wondered what it’s like to fly?” he asks her.

“Not really,” she shrugs, her heart beating with a quickening thump-thump-thump in her chest and she knows he can sense it.

But it’s not from fear.

And he knows that too.

She takes his hand and lets him pull her towards him, leading her over to the window. Sitting on the ledge, he positions her arms around his neck, and curves his own arm around her waist and pulls her in tighter.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

“What?” she chokes out.

“Um, it’s just . . . it’s probably easiest . . .”

She does as he asks, thinks her cheeks are probably turning as red as his are right now, which is no easy feat. She doesn’t blush easy. But he’ll never know as she lightly teases, “you know, you should probably take a girl out on a date before you get this close and personal.”

Peter shakes his head, the smooth material of his mask brushing her curls as he does, but if she thought he’d turn into the stammering, nerdy Peter Parker, she’s grown to love, she’d got it wrong.

Because he only pulls her leg around him tighter and whispers in her ear. “And if I asked you, would you say yes?”

She’s too stunned to answer, and anyway, he doesn’t give her the time to.

“Hold tight,” he says.

As if she’d do anything else?

“Ready?”

“No.”

She can feel the curve of his mouth against her hair as he grins, and then . . .

_Thwip!_

 

)(

 

It’s a first for Peter, too.

Because flying has never felt like this before.

There’s always a heady rush as he swings between the city’s skyscrapers, adrenaline flowing through his arteries as he swoops high and low, chasing bad guys, following the wail of sirens and always running towards trouble.

But its nothing to having MJ in his arms – her softness pressed up against his hard lines, fingers digging so hard into his suit he can almost feel the scratch of her nails on his skin as she clings to him, shrieking and cursing as he makes sudden swoops. His heart feels full – not just with the relief that she’s here safe, and not in Harry’s grasp, but that she’s here, in his arms, in possibly the only way she ever will be. He treasures the moment; maybe even takes the slower route to his apartment just so he can hold onto her that little bit longer.

When he eventually lands on the fire escape outside his bedroom window, MJ is sill clinging to him for dear life.

“MJ,” he says softly, smiling. “We’re here.”

She lifts her head slowly away from where she’d buried it in his neck and blinks at him.

Flushed, eyes wide, hair windswept, she looks achingly beautiful and before he can stop his itching fingers, he’s reaching up with one hand to push her hair aside and tuck it behind her ear, hand lingering there on her cheek.

Her legs are still wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, and she doesn’t let go as her eyes rove over his masked face.

“I hate you,” she says quietly, seriously.

And it doesn’t hurt.

Because he thinks she doesn’t mean it.

_Doesn’t mean it at all._

“No you don’t.”

Her gaze doesn’t drop, but one hand definitely loosens its grip and he can feel her trace the edges of his mask, and this time, he knows, if she pushes it up and off him, he isn’t gonna stop her.

Nope.

Because Ned does it for him.

_“Ahem.”_

They both turn their heads to find Ned Leeds hanging his head outside Peter’s bedroom window.

“Are you guys just gonna stand out here all night staring at each other?”

It’s the proverbial bucket of ice-cold water they need as MJ quite literally jumps off him as he lets go of her at the same time. It would be funny if he didn’t think about what he had just discovered, and how his heart had definitely stopped beating for a moment there as he realised the truth of how she feels about him.

But now’s not the time, so he pushes it aside and motions for her to climb in through his window before him and respectfully averts his gaze as she does.

Once inside he pulls off his mask and drops it on his bed. MJ stands there looking around his room and embarrassment creeps up his skin as he discreetly kicks an abandoned pair of boxers under his bed before she notices. On the whole his room’s actually not that messy. It’s a hell of a lot tidier than MJ’s from what little glimpse he got, that’s for sure. He hadn’t really got a chance to take it in. Not when she’d been standing there in front of him looking so damn ethereal in the moonlight. It had been kinda hard to look away from her.

“Nice room,” she smirks, before turning her eyes on him and sweeping them down the length of him and there’s no hiding the blush now that he stands there sans mask.

A hand creeps awkwardly up to rub the back of his neck and Ned chooses that moment to appear once more.

This time in the doorway.

He rolls his eyes at them.

“Guys! Come on! Flirt later. Talk now.”

“We weren’t . . . _right,”_ he nods with a pointed finger and a stammering, “I’m coming, I just need a minute –”

At Ned’s expression, this time he rolls his own eyes and continues, “– one minute, thirty seconds, I just need to change out of the suit first.”

MJ doesn’t say a word as she slips out of the room past Ned, allowing him to glare freely at his best friend, but Ned’s the picture of innocence as he shrugs and mouths, _“what?”_

Peter steps forward and shuts the door in his face before spinning around and tugging at his suit. He’ll feel bad about it later but for now, he’s in such a rush to get out of the suit, he gets his leg trapped and nearly trips over more than once while trying to do so. It’s more or less a minute before he’s emerging from his bedroom in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt.

Ned’s settled himself on his favourite beanbag and MJ has opted for the armchair.

“So?” MJ prompts, looking up at him from where she’s sitting. “What happened with Jameson? What were you rescuing me from?”

“Who? More like who?” Peter says.

“What?” Ned frowns.

He takes a breath and knows he’s about to skewer through everything they know with his next words.

_“The Green Goblin.”_

He watches MJ carefully, and he can pinpoint the exact moment she joins the dots and it starts to make sense.

“What?” Ned asks again, but it’s MJ who answers him.

“Harry’s the Green Goblin.” The words are spoken with the kind of realisation that says she thinks she should have seen it coming.

Ned looks back and forth between the two and sinks further into the beanbag. “Holy shit,” he whispers into the room. “How?”

“How do I know? Or how is he the Green Goblin?”

Ned shrugs. “Both?”

Peter sighs, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

“Jameson. Turns out the dirt Jameson searched the archives for was mostly just a red herring. I mean, he genuinely didn’t want Harry to get hold of any more ammunition he could use against him but that’s not the main reason he agreed to the Oscorp partnership.”

“And that reason is what exactly?”

“Harry threatened to kill Jameson’s son if he didn’t.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

Peter glances at MJ, but she’s staring down at the coffee table, chewing on her bottom lip. It’s hard enough reading her on a good day, but with her avoiding his gaze it’s damn near impossible.

“How does he know he’s the Green Goblin?” she asks finally, looking up at him.

“Norman,” Peter answers. “He was working on an experimental strength enhancing formula for Oscorp Industries before his death. Something he was hoping to sell to the U.S. army. Apparently, the process was taking too long, and Harry was pushing for human trials to start earlier. Norman resisted. So, Harry took it in his place, and that’s when Norman came to Jameson, scared.”

“Scared for Harry or for himself?”

“Both.”

“You think . . .” Ned trails off. He can’t even voice his suspicions aloud, it’s too terrible to contemplate.

But Peter already knows, and by MJ’s whispered words, she does too.

_“He killed his own father.”_

The words sit there, and Peter feels it like a chill in the air, the enormity of what they’re actually dealing with revealing itself and he doesn’t think any of them could ever have been prepared for it.

“He doesn’t have proof,” Peter continues after the moment stretches on, “but Jameson definitely believes it.”

Ned turns then on MJ and asks the question Peter had been building up to.

“What do you think MJ? _Do you think he could have done it?”_

 

)(

 

The question weaves a dizzying path in her mind, tying it up in knots, tighter and tighter, until it’s a pressure building inside her head and she feels like it’s going to explode.

She’s seeing black dots as she stands suddenly, shaking her head to clear her vision before she starts pacing the length of Peter’s small living room.

She can feel both their eyes on her, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

Except she doesn’t know what to say.

Does she think he could have done it?

It being _murder his own father?_

If she’d been asked at the beginning of their relationship, she would have said _absolutely not_. He’d been charming, kind, maybe a little too slick, in an unnerving way, but then so were a lot of people.

But the signs? They were there.

Not just in their relationship – the controlling, manipulative behaviour, and then the whole thing with the car accident. How Harry had made it appear to be her fault, wracked her with guilt, and how Norman had covered it up, making her feel indebted to them. To effectively silence her, _keep her imprisoned._

No, they were never good people.

And Norman had never been a good father either.

And MJ had enough experience in the shitty paternal figure department to recognise another just as easily.

Neglectful.

Short fuse.

Judgemental.

Too quick to fall back on money as being the solution to all their problems.

Norman fed into Harry’s erratic and impulsive behaviours, and Harry never knew any better.

If Harry was a monster, he was definitely Norman Osborn’s creation.

_Is he capable of murder, though?_

The answer – MJ realises, as she thinks back to all those moments with him when her hairs stood on end, her heart rate tripling with an injection of adrenaline, the flight response to _run for her life_ kicking in, and all of that simply being her _survival_ instinct that she couldn’t name then but can now – _is yes._

Yes, he is.

As to whether he’s the Green Goblin?

Well, Jameson has no real reason to lie. And if there’s anything that would allow him to sacrifice the autonomy of his beloved publication company, it would definitely be a threat on his son’s life.

J. Jonah Jameson, for all his faults (and boy are there many), is no Norman Osborn.

And here are the facts:

Harry had means by way of Oscorp.

His hallucinations and behaviour worsened after Norman’s death.

He knows Peter is Spider-Man, and who had he been waiting for on Christmas Day on Manhattan Bridge _but Spider-Man?_

And she knows it had been born from jealousy. Jealousy she’d egged on in the aftermath, stuck in an elevator, by implying there had been something going on between her and Peter.

And surely it can’t be coincidence either that sightings of Green Goblin have died down since MJ had agreed (or more like _had been_ _coerced_ ) into going back to him.

The clues were there.

But she’d been so hung up on a missing archive cabinet and a phantom _Daily Bugle_ article that she hadn’t seen it.

So, the question is this:

Does she think he could have done it?

 _“Yes,”_ she says finally. _“I think he could have.”_

)(

 

It’s nearing midnight by the time they’re all talked out. Peter doesn’t think they’ve managed to process all the bombshells that have been unleashed on them tonight, but it’s a lot to take in, so he thinks they can be forgiven for not quite having a clear plan going forward.

Ned, in any case, is definitely out for the count.

At some point during the night he had migrated from the bean bag on the floor, to the three-seater and had stretched out along it. The snores reverberating around the room tells him he’s fallen asleep and he doesn’t have the heart to wake him.

MJ’s sitting back in the armchair, curled up, and she looks just as exhausted as he feels. Still, she manages a small smirk at the sight of their friend snoring away.

“I should go,” she says softly, and yet doesn’t move a muscle.

Peter looks up from where he’s sitting now on the bean bag, and doesn’t really think as he blurts out, “it’s late. You should stay.”

MJ smiles at him. “Your couch is already taken.”

“You can have my bed.”

She arches a brow, and he miraculously doesn’t flush as she asks, “and where would you sleep?”

“On the floor, it’s not a big deal.”

She shakes her head, “thanks for the offer, but Liz’ll be worried if I’m not there in the morning. Pretty sure that Harry will have his little watch dogs sniffing around our building, too.”

A flare of red-hot anger sparks to life in his chest. Not at her. Never at her. But anger at this situation. Anger at his inability to do anything about what’s happening to her, a hopeless feeling of being utterly useless.

“I’m sorry. This . . . all of this, it’s just not fair. You shouldn’t have to . . .”

“It’s not your fault, Peter,” she interrupts him, dark eyes boring into his, willing him to believe. “It’s mine. I ignored all the warning signs, and . . . _no Peter_ ,” she says then as he opens his mouth to argue, “it’s true. It’s not your responsibility to save everyone.”

“It is my responsibility to _save you._ ” The words leave his mouth in a rush of unshakeable fervour and belief.

“Why?” she asks softly. So softly, it’s like she just breathes the word out and it hits him right there in the centre of his chest.

“You know why.”

She closes her eyes and when she looks back at him, she’s wide open, and it’s all there for him to see.

He’d been right.

She didn’t hate him.

Not at all.

“Peter . . .” she breathes out.

But whatever she would have said next is disrupted by the sudden rumble of his vibrating phone against the hard wood of the coffee table. With some effort he breaks MJ’s gaze and reaches for the phone.

The number across the screen is unknown, and with a frown and mounting trepidation, he answers it.

“Hello?”

_“Hello, is this Peter Parker?”_

“Who is this?”

MJ straightens up in her seat, the dream-like haze of the moment from just seconds before disappearing instantly as everything switches to full alert with the tone of his voice.

_“I’m calling from the New York-Presbyterian Hospital, there’s been an attack in the Forest Hills area. We’ve had a number of casualties brought in. You’ve been listed as the next of kin of –”_

“Aunt May . . .” he says in dawning horror and with a panic that seizes up his lungs, and he can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe._

MJ is out of her seat and Ned is wide awake also as she presses heavily on his shoulder. His startled _“what?!”_ fades into the background as he pushes himself up to a seated position and takes in Peter’s expression.

“May Parker,” Peter says again into the phone he’s clutching white-knuckled in his hand. “She’s my aunt. She’s my . . . _No_ , no, no, NO. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening . . .”

 _“Sir, please. Sir, she’s alive._ She’s alive, _but in surgery, and you best get down here as soon as possible.”_

If the woman on the other end of the line says anything else, it’s all just white noise.

He doesn’t register the hand that grips hold of his arm, or Ned grabbing the remote and switching on the news. The blazing row of houses on fire doesn’t compute, the scrolling headline: GREEN GOBLIN ATTACKS QUEENS NEIGHBOURHOOD is an incomprehensible blur.

He doesn’t remember much of what happens next.

There’s just a painful, tight squeeze of words around his heart as he prays.

_Please._

_Not her too._

))((

 


	10. June 2028; Issue No. 110

 

                                            

 

Temperatures hit the mid-80s by the second week of June.

The sun is bright and fierce, and there’s a stickiness in the air that’s pushing at the boundaries of comfort. The whole city is covered in a blanket of blue overhead, with the occasional wisp of white cloud interrupting the block of crisp colour.

Summer is here, right on schedule, and New York is basking in it.

Odd then how it appears to have missed their little plot of the city altogether.

Because there’s been a grey cloud looming stubbornly over the Goodman Building for the last fortnight and there’s no sign of it shifting any time soon.

And everyone can feel it, hovering there. It’s saturating the air, turning the atmosphere heavy and oppressive.

Everyone from Betty out in reception fielding endless telephone calls, to Flash slumped in his seat staring blankly at his screen, and to Harrington locked away in his office, can feel it weighing them down.

Of course, the fact their deadline is set to expire in fourteen days and they’re still eight percent shy of Jameson’s target is the main reason for the gloomy faces all around.

But it’s not the _only_ reason.

And MJ’s staring at it.

_It just looks wrong._

So wrong.

The empty desk to her right. The blank, powered down computer monitor. The fact that Ned’s staring at that same chair and looks for all the world like he’s lost a limb.

And then there’s the empty corner of her desk and the glaring lack of a coffee cup.

She swallows thickly and look unseeing back at her own computer screen.

_It’s not the only reason._

Because the Green Goblin terror attack on the street Peter grew up on has stabbed a dagger deep into the heart of this magazine. Because ignoring the harmless banter and ribbing, and putting aside the writing rivalries, _NY Pulse_ is a family, and it’s hurting for one of their own.

But it’s not just what happened to Aunt May and Peter’s consequent absence – virtually everyone here knows someone who’s been affected by what happened that night in Queens and it’s left a gaping hole in the community at large. Its effects are still reverberating around the city days after the catastrophic event.

The _Daily Bugle_ referred to it as a senseless terror attack.

But MJ knows it hadn’t been senseless.

It had been targeted.

Somehow Harry had known.

Had known where she’d been.

What she’d been up to.

And had known that _they had known_ about him and his masked, evil alter-ego.

Because in the two weeks since May Parker had been admitted to the New York-Presbyterian Hospital with crush and head injuries, as well as critical smoke inhalation, he’d only been in contact with her once.

Just once.

A single text message with two simple words.

**Your fault.**

And it was.

It was her fault.

If only she’d kept her distance, hadn’t dragged Peter and Ned down that rabbit hole with her, then maybe the only family Peter had left wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life right now.

Maybe it’s a good thing he’s taken a leave of absence.

She doesn’t think she could handle looking across the room at those red-rimmed, dazed, and grief-stricken brown eyes every day. Or to see the blame and hatred that would be swimming there, because how could it not be?

And yet, she can’t _not_ look for him.

It’s an instinctive, indefatigable urge that has her turning her head in the direction of his desk every morning. And every morning she’ll catch Ned’s sad eyes and watch him answer her unspoken question with a shake of his head.

And just like every day before that, he’ll send her an IM. It’ll pop up on screen, and will say the same:

**N. Leeds:** You should go see her. Peter’s been asking about you.

And she’ll reply, like always:

**(NYP) M. Jones:** Maybe tomorrow.

And she wants to.

So badly.

She misses him.

She misses him with the kind of bone deep ache she thought she was immune to.

She wants to go back.

Go back in time to that moment before that phone call – his face so soft as he looked back at her awestruck and so hauntingly hopeful. _“Peter . . .”_ she’d started to say, and she has no idea how that sentence would have ended but she’d give anything to be able to go back to that moment and find out.

But then maybe that’s being selfish.

Maybe she should want to go back to the moment before she started digging into Harry Osborn, before she unsettled the hornet’s nest with one too many questions, and people got hurt.

Better yet, go back even further that that, and fulfil the wish that keeps her up at night.

Back to that fateful moment in that coffee shop – if she’d been just five minutes earlier, maybe she never would have met Harry Osborn.

And maybe she would have met Peter Parker first.

_Maybe._

 

)(

 

The smell.

He can’t get rid of it.

The chemically laced smell of sterility, pungent and overbearing in its attempts to cover up the stench of the sick, dead and the dying.

It lingers in his clothes. It’s leeched into his skin. So much so that even after he goes home every night and stands for an age under the shower-head, he can’t scrub the smell away and it’s the last thing he smells before falling asleep.

And with it comes the memories, the dread, the fear, the feeling of being left bereft with hopelessness.

Because it’s a hard smell to forget.

Funny, how all those memories came rushing back as he’d torpedoed through those glass doors of the hospital that night. They say sense of smell is that which is most closely linked to memory, and so it makes sense then that he’d thought of _him._

Of Uncle Ben.

And then he’d been struck hard all over again in reminder of who was lying on that operating table and he could only plead over and over.

_Please. Not her too._

He doesn’t remember much of that night. Vaguely recollects Ned and MJ rushing in, close behind him; MJ haranguing the poor nursing staff for information, _any information_ ; Ned hovering close by, hand on his shoulder as he tried to ground him, frozen as he was by the assault of memories that had hit him in that moment.

The television had been on in the waiting room and he remembers it being lit up in angry shades of orange and red, and plumes of thick black smoke disappearing into the top edge of the screen.

It still hasn’t sunk in.

His childhood home, _gone._

And Aunt May . . .

_Alive._

Still alive, but beyond that, he doesn’t know. No one does.

He remembers the overwhelming relief when the surgeon had come to find him, wearing a hole into the corridors outside the operating theatres, and told him that she’d made it through the surgery. But it had been tempered by the cautious tone and hesitant, weary eyes, and he’d held his breath as he’d listened to the man’s words.

“We’ve managed to stop the pressure build up,” he’d explained, pulling off his surgical cap, a few stray strands of greying hair sticking up with the static, “but it’s a waiting game now. There’s still some swelling around her brain and we won’t know more until she wakes up. The good news is the abdominal injuries she sustained from where she’d been trapped under the rubble have been stabilised. For now, she’s in a medically induced coma to give her the best chance of recovery, but the next twenty-four hours will be critical.”

He doesn’t think he’d said anything to that. Thinks Ned had nodded his thanks and shaken the man’s hand in his stead. He does remember MJ standing there beside him though, slipping her hand into his and not letting go.

They had an even longer wait before they were allowed to slip into the ICU and see her. They were told they could have a few minutes only, but it was all he needed – just to see her with his own eyes.

But nothing could have prepared him for it.

Nothing.

She’d been too still. Too pale. Too small.

Her head half disappearing into bandages with tubes everywhere – down her throat, from both her arms hooked up to IVs, and then the wires hidden behind her gown leading up to the heart monitor. He’d felt his lungs fill up with fear, drowning in the terror of losing her, and he couldn’t breathe, the beeping monitors reaching a crescendo that ricocheted inside his skull.

“Come on buddy, breathe,” Ned had said beside him, clutching at his shoulder.

MJ had only squeezed his hand tighter.

Both of his friends trying their best to comfort, to keep him here in the present and chase away the building panic.

In the end, it had been the rise and fall of Aunt May’s chest that did it as he slowed his breaths to match hers and let the air rush in. And only then did he, _finally_ , let the tears fall.

And they’d all stood there, curled around each other as the world somehow went on around them.

And it did go on.

Not that he could tell.

Because the world has continued to spin on its axis and life has gone on, but Peter’s been oblivious to it all.

Oblivious to everything outside these hospital walls for the last two weeks.

Harrington’s been very understanding, granting him leave, and he’s been spending most of his day by Aunt May’s bedside – reading to her, rambling about nothing, waiting for her to wake up. They’d taken her out of the coma only a few days ago, but she still hasn’t woken up on her own; although she is breathing for herself and the doctors tell him that’s a good sign. But the longer she stays unconscious, the more he worries that she won’t wake up at all.

She’s looking better though.

The bruising around her eyes is starting to fade, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he thinks there’s a bit more colour in her cheeks, and plus the dramatic reduction of tubes and lines going in and out of her also helps create the illusion of progress.

When he walks into her room this morning, he finds one of her usual nurses beside her, jotting down her vital signs on her observation chart. She turns at the sound of the door opening and shoots him a kind smile.

“Hi Peter.”

“Hi Lara, how’s she doing this morning?”

He asks the question every day, hoping for a different answer, but it’s always the same.

Today’s no exception.

Lara’s smile isn’t quite so vibrant anymore as she pockets her pen and sticks the clipboard under her arm. She walks towards him, placing her hand briefly on his shoulder as she passes. “Hang in there, Peter. She’s mending, it’s just gonna take a little more time.”

He doesn’t say anything. An angry, petulant, _I’ve been waiting. It’s all I’ve been doing!_ there on his tongue, but he swallows it down for a nod and a quiet “thanks.”

Once she’s left the room, he takes his seat by her head and clasps her hand in his and starts talking.

Tells her about the funny meme Ned sent him this morning, how he’s promised to come around this afternoon to see her, how MJ’s still keeping her distance and how he hasn’t seen her in two weeks and he doesn’t understand _why. . ._

“I keep thinking it’s something I did, or said, or didn’t say, and I just don’t know what I’ve done wrong. And Ned says it’s not me. That it’s probably just something MJ needs to work through on her own, but I can’t help it. I’m worried, especially cos Ha-,” he stumbles on the name with a crack in his voice, anger and frustration nipping at the edges, but there’s guilt there too. Because this is _his fault_. “Because Harry’s disappeared, and no one’s seen him since. And I don’t know what he’ll do next.”

He takes a deep breath, holds on a little bit tighter to Aunt May’s hand as he watches the rise and fall of her chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. And he’s lost count of the number of times he’s said it, but he’ll keep saying it until she opens her eyes. “He only came after you because of me, and I’m _so sorry Aunt May._ ”

His eyes glisten with tears but they don’t fall. He simply blinks them away.

“You gotta wake up,” he says, sitting a little straighter now, eyes moving up to her serene, sleeping face. “You gotta wake up so you can tell me I’m being an idiot, cos I know that’s just what you’d say. You gotta wake up so you can tell me you were right all along _about everything,_ but mostly, about MJ, and how I feel about her.

“You hear that Aunt May?” he laughs quietly, and it sounds wet, and not funny at all. “ _You were right._ I’m not denying it any more. You gotta wake up so you can tease the crap out of me and say ‘I told you so’ and then tell me what I should do, because . . .”

He takes a trembling breath in and out, and then whispers into the answering silence;

_“I don’t know what to do.”_

)(

 

MJ should have known it was coming.

The confrontation.

She’s just surprised Ned’s lasted as long as he has.

It’s a few days later, as the clock continues its countdown and _NY Pulse_ spirals further into depression, that Ned comes to find her in the break room.

It’s only 10am – hardly time for a break, or another cup of coffee – but she couldn’t sit at her desk any longer, staring at Peter’s empty desk. Plus, she knows that everyone’s at their peak productivity around this time in the morning, which means no one is likely to intrude on her moment of solitude.

But of course, Ned Leeds has other plans.

She’s leaning up against the counter, hands curled around her cup, staring vacantly into space, when Ned pops his head around the door frame.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she bats back, blinking herself back into existence, though she doesn’t turn to meet his gaze.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, and the undercurrent of awkwardness is evident in the way she can see him holding himself from the corner of her eye, and the slight hesitation in his words is also a dead giveaway.

It all tells her it’s a prelude to the _real_ question he wants to ask, and she already has a fair idea as to what that may be.

She answers his question by way of lifting her cup.

“Right,” Ned breathes out, before taking a step inside and shutting the door behind him.

“Have you heard from him?” he asks finally after an excruciatingly long pause.

“From who?”

“You know who?”

And she bites down on the inappropriate laughter because there’s a _Harry Potter_ joke in there and it’s far too obvious for her to fall prey to it.

In any case, they’re talking about a different Harry altogether _._

“No,” she lies. And it is a lie, because she did get that text, after all.

But as far as Ned knows, Harry’s done a vanishing act with the strong likelihood of knowing (although it’s yet to be confirmed) that his cover’s been blown with them, given his choice of target.

“You will tell us if you do, won’t you?”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Leeds. I’m a big girl, can handle myself.”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Leeds.” And then: “When did I become _Leeds_ again?”

“You’ve always been Leeds.”

“You know what I mean, MJ.”

And she does know. It’s not so much the use of his last name, which yes, she has been using less and less in recent months for both him and Peter, but it’s the tone with which she’s said it. There’s something missing. Something that must have reminded him of before, because she can taste it on her tongue. And it tastes wrong.

She says nothing as Ned stops in front of her, leaning back against one of the tables, the metal legs scraping slightly on the flooring as he pushes it back a fraction with his resting weight.

“Just be careful,” he says on a sigh.

She nods.

And waits for the rest, because there’s definitely more but Ned just shifts on the spot and glances away.

“Spit it out.”

“Spit what out?”

“Whatever it is that you’ve been dying to say to me for weeks.”

He looks back at her and just blurts it out. “Why haven’t you gone to see Peter or May since that night?”

She swallows thickly.

What is she supposed to say?

How is she meant to answer that?

She knows Ned will turn around and tell her earnestly it’s not her fault.

And look, she’s not a complete martyr. Knows she wasn’t the one who dropped the grenades, or whatever the hell the Green Goblin had used, to blow their world to pieces. But she’s guilty through association.

Because Harry had been obsessed _with her_. And she had known how deranged he was and yet had still risked it all by doing the _one thing_ that would have brought his jealousy to critical mass, ready to implode, and rain chaos and destruction around them.

And that _one thing_ being?

_Falling in love with Peter Parker,_ of course.

Maybe she hadn’t said anything.

How could she, when she’d been denying it to herself for so long?

But she hadn’t needed to.

Because, apparently, it’s obvious to everyone apart from the man himself.

Even Ned knows it, if the way he’s looking at her is anything to go by.

“He misses you.”

“I miss him, too,” she admits on a whisper.

“Then why?”

“I just . . . I –”

The words are torn away by the sudden opening of the door. It’s flung wide, and both Ned and her look back at the interloper in surprise.

Because it’s Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson standing there, eyes comically wide, panting as if he’d been running.

“Guys! There you are! You need to come . . .” he takes in a wheezing breath, “need to come. Right. Now!”

MJ and Ned exchange looks between them – confused, alarmed – but they have no chance to question Flash any further because he’s already disappeared.

With a start they both push themselves upright and follow after him; MJ abandoning her still hot coffee on the counter top as she goes.

They don’t have to go too far to see what all the fuss is about – the glass walls of the conference room giving them a clear view of the commotion in there.

It’s packed, and they literally have to squish someone as they try to open the door, just so that they can get inside and squeeze their way through. Everyone is in here and it’s just a cacophony of noise.

She can see over the sea of heads and spots Harrington at the front of the room, waving his hands around meekly, pink in the face, forehead sweating profusely as he tries to call for quiet over the top of the clamouring.

MJ wastes no time: clambers up on to a chair – not averse to furniture climbing (and she’s done it before, of course) – and sticks two fingers in her mouth and blows out a short, sharp whistle.

It does the trick.

Silence descends abruptly, almost like she’s a conductor standing there in front of an orchestra, back to the audience, and with one vicious swipe of her baton has brought the music to a crashing end.

“Thank you, Jones,” Harrington breathes out.

She nods in acknowledgement, before stepping off the chair and handing the floor over to _NY Pulse’s_ Managing Editor.

“Okay. Alright, guys. I know you all want to know what’s going on. Have heard the rumours by now. And I’m sorry to say . . . _they’re true_. The _Daily Bugle_ are putting out an emergency issue as we speak. Mr Jameson has indeed resigned.”

A stirring of whispers starts up, a hum of unanswered questions in the air:

_“Resigned?”_

_“What?”_

_“Why?”_

MJ turns to look at Ned, and he looks just as shocked as she.

It doesn’t make sense.

The man, they’ve always believed, would go to his grave clutching a copy of his precious _Daily Bugle_ , his own printed obituary inside; and he definitely wouldn’t hand over the title of Editor-in-Chief unless he was actually on his death bed and absolutely had to.

And then it dawns on her.

Harry.

Harry and his threat – it _must_ have something to do with this.

“He’ll be putting out a statement at noon today –” Harrington continues.

_“What about us?”_

_“What does this mean for NY Pulse?”_

_“Are we gonna lose our jobs?”_

The questions come thick and fast, and he can’t keep up.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. The board are holding an emergency meeting. I’ve been promised we’ll have an answer by tomorrow morning.”

“I need to tell Peter,” Ned mutters beside her and she barely hears him over the din. Barely hears herself as she says:

“I will. I’ll tell him.”

Ned looks up at that. Surprised. A relieved smile slowly curving up along his lips.

She shakes her head. “Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”

He laughs, even though there’s nothing really funny about what’s happening, and MJ wonders at just what their lives have turned into when the only thing they’ve got left to cling to is laughter.

_Disasters_ , that’s what.

 

)(

 

There’s something different about today.

He can feel it.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact the nursing staff reported some movement in Aunt May’s upper limbs last night, and her last EEG reported a spike in brain activity, which means maybe . . . _just maybe_ . . .

He tries not to be too hopeful, but it’s part of who he is. Endlessly hopeful in a world that’s easy to succumb to and be swallowed whole by darkness.

He wonders maybe if it’s just his Spidey sense going a little haywire and giving him false optimism – after all, it’s been weeks since he’s been out on the New York City streets, spinning his webs, swinging between buildings and doing his superhero thing – but even he knows it doesn’t really work like that.

What is fact though, is that he’s never taken a break as long as this one from being Spider-Man and people have noticed.

The newspapers have taken to running ‘Have you seen Spider-Man?’ columns, and people have been writing in, swearing up and down, that they saw him running along 59th Street on Friday, or swinging past a Kmart in Jackson Heights, or climbing a tree in Central Park rescuing a tabby.

Along with all the lies, there’s also the question on everyone’s lips: _why didn’t he come and stop the Green Goblin?_

It’s a good question and one he asks himself every day.

He’d been distracted.

That’s why.

But there’s no point dredging that guilt up again as he tries to focus on the positives.

May’s alive, and if her latest scan is to be believed, the swelling in her brain is right down and there doesn’t seem to be any residual damage. They’ll know more, of course, _when_ she wakes up.

And it is a definite _when_ , and not _if_.

He settles into his usual seat, reaching for one of the tattered, old novels that’s been donated to the hospital, sitting there on the bedside cabinet. There’s a slight knock at the door as he does, and he realises then that it’s nearing lunch time. He figures it’s the nice lunch lady, coming to check up on him and see if he’s hungry (technically the food is for the patients, but she’s always sneaking him a sandwich or two).

The door creaks open, and he’s already starting to speak as he turns in his seat. “Hey Maureen, thanks but I’m not really that hung . . . ry . . . today . . .” The words trail off into nothing as he realises that _nope._

Nope, that isn’t Maureen.

_It’s MJ._

He’s stunned into silence.

He’s been hoping she’d come for days now and had given up hope. Especially when she’d taken to ignoring his texts as well, and hounding Ned hadn’t yielded any results either.

“Hey,” she says softly.

And all he can manage to do is croak out the same. “Hey.”

She looks tired, he thinks.

Still beautiful. Still makes his heart do that totally cliché thing where it skips a beat. Still looks utterly fierce.

_But tired._

Like the things that have kept him awake at night are the same things that have been weighing on her.

She’s still hovering at the door as if she needs permission to enter and it feels like there’s a gaping chasm between them and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Standing abruptly, he stiffly and idiotically, stretches out a hand. “Uh come in.”

MJ nods and does just that, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

She averts her gaze from him, looking instead at Aunt May and her expression gives nothing away.

“How is she doing?” she finally asks. “Sorry,” she says a split second later, giving him no chance to answer. “Stupid question.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s . . . she’s . . .” he sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his face, and finds himself asking a question of his own. _“Why are you here?”_ Which is not what he’d meant to say, at all.

If it hurts her, her mask stays firmly in place.

“I wasn’t sure you’d heard.”

“Heard what?”

It’s then that he notices the newspaper rolled up in her hand. She hands it over.

It’s a copy of today’s _Daily Bugle_ – except that’s not right.

He’s already read this morning’s copy, and this certainly hadn’t been the front page.

**J. JONAH JAMESON STEPS DOWN**

His eyes skim over the article, and he’s aggravated to find no real explanation. It’s all very superficial with the writer keen to lament the loss of a legacy and recap his illustrious career in over-indulgent prose, instead. There’s mention of him even stepping down from the board of directors but it says nothing concrete.

“Why?” he asks.

MJ shrugs. “No one knows, but I’m thinking Harry has something to do with it.”

“Makes sense, but I um meant, _why?_ Why are you bringing this to me?”

“We thought you should know.”

He doesn’t know why he pushes. Could claim ignorance but he can’t keep this up. It’s eating him up.

“Why _you?_ Ned could easily have filled me in.”

And he doesn’t mean to be so harsh. But he’s tired. And he’s hurting.

_And great._

Now she is too, as the expression on her face cuts right through him. “I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“MJ. No,” he groans, frustrated by his inability to just talk to her. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just I’ve not seen you for weeks. You’ve been ignoring my texts. I thought I’d done something to upset you.”

She looks physically pained at that as she looks away, an incredulous laugh leaving her lips. She shakes her head and mutters under her breath, “of course, you’d think it was you.”

She sighs and turns back. “You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t do anything Peter. I’m sorry. This is all me. I just didn’t know how to face you, not when this is my fault.”

Peter can’t comprehend it.

He gapes at her.

“What?”

“I should never have dragged you into this. I knew what Harry’s like. I knew he was a jealous bastard, and then I stupidly went and firmly put you in his sights –”

“What?” He clears his throat, heart pounding. “How is this your fault? MJ, this is _not_ your fault!”

And then something registers as she looks down and kicks at nothing on the floor. “What do you mean?” he says slowly, softly. “Why would he be jealous?”

She lifts her head but won’t look at him as she folds her arms across her chest.

And he knows he’s not reading into something that’s not there as he takes a step closer to her, not by the way she’s avoiding his gaze.

“MJ, why would he be jealous of me?”

She breathes out heavily, and shakes her head.

“Don’t be an asshole Parker and make me say it. You know why.”

And suddenly it all starts to make sense and he’d laugh at the ridiculousness. The mess they’ve got themselves into because neither of them can just freakin’ say what they’re thinking, feeling, and that’s gotta stop. Like right now.

Except timing has never been their thing.

And well he can’t be mad, not when it’s Aunt May’s heart monitor that’s blaring. And in that moment, nothing else matters, not as the panic seizes him as he turns around and notices the rising heart rate on the screen, the twitching fingers and the still bandaged head that’s moving from side to side.

“Aunt May?!” He rushes to her side and MJ doesn’t even blink as she’s pulling open the door and yelling for help.

It’s all a blur after that, doctors and nurses rush in and he’s pushed aside as they check her over. MJ stands close by, and it reminds him of the night this all started: how she never left his side, how she held onto his hand and refused to let go.

It’s the longest few minutes of his life as he watches her heart rate go back down to normal and then when she finally, after days and days of praying, hoping, sitting vigil by her side, flutters her eyes open, and groans, it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

The doctor shines a light in her eyes and smiles.

_“Welcome back, Mrs Parker.”_

 

)(

 

MJ has never felt more like an intruder than she does standing there on the sides, watching as the doctors and nurses check May over and Peter sits there grasping her hand – knuckles white, whole body trembling.

She didn’t even feel this way when she’d spent Christmas with the Parkers and had quite literally intruded on their quality family time.

It feels like too much has happened. Too much has gone unsaid for her to be standing here in this moment, as if she belongs.

And so, she moves to leave, _but then she feels it._

The warm hand reaching out to grab hold of her wrist, slipping down to unclench her fist and slip his fingers through hers and hold her in place.

He’s still looking down at Aunt May as she blinks up at him – disoriented and uncomprehending – but after all this time, it still seems like a miracle she’s woken up and she knows Peter will take it.

There are tears sliding down his cheeks, but he’s smiling.

He doesn’t say it.

But she hears it.

_Stay,_ he says.

And she does.

 

-

 

Walking into work the following morning, MJ’s really not expecting anything more to go their way.

She thinks they’ve had their quota fill of positives, and well, she couldn’t really care less about anything else.

May was okay.

She was awake.

And apparently had even started talking this morning as Peter had gleefully told her via text. She imagines he was gleeful anyway if the excessive number of exclamation points and smiley face emojis were anything to go by.

And that’s all she needs.

And so, when she walks into the office, right on time, she certainly hadn’t been expecting a full-blown party atmosphere to be waiting for her.

Music’s blaring, Brown’s popping champagne and Harrington’s shaking his head at the antics but grinning from ear to ear and not making any attempts to put an end to the madness.

She sidles up to Ned who’s grinning just as wide.

“I’m guessing it’s good news?”

Ned pulls her into a hug, and the sudden grab catches her by surprise and laughter bubbles from her lips.

“About time the universe started paying us back for all the crap it’s put us through,” he says once he’s released her.

“We’re safe?” she hedges an educated guess.

“Yep,” Ned nods, handing her a glass of still fizzing champagne. It’s far too early to be drinking, but far be it for her to be a party-pooper as she takes a small sip. “The board pretty unanimously agreed to keep _NY Pulse’s_ lights on for at least another twelve months. Apparently, they were impressed with the turnaround we managed on our numbers even though we’ve still not reached our target. And without Jameson’s grubby, biased hands in the mix, the decision was an easy one.”

“And what of Jameson? Any news on that front?”

“No. He’s disappeared again. Another tropical destination, I bet, to avoid the media shitstorm. But get this?” he says, dropping his voice and adding to the suspense. “Jameson Inc. have cut their ties with Oscorp Industries!”

MJ blinks. “What?”

“Yep!”

“But how’s that possible, I thought –”

Ned’s nodding, cutting in before she can get the full sentence out. “Some legal loophole; Harry had to be physically present to contest the vote and since he’s been AWOL, the board decided he’s out. Seems like they hadn’t all been keen on Jameson’s deal with the devil in the first place. Glad they’re not complete idiots.”

It comes to MJ then as she stands there mulling it over. “You know, I think Jameson’s smarter than I gave him credit for?”

“What do you mean? The man’s lost his prized company.”

“But it gives him one less thing Harry can hold over his head. More importantly, he still has his son. And his dignity. He’s leaving on his own terms. The latter being maybe more than he deserves given the fact he’s never really faced the consequences of all his previous skeevy behaviour.”

“Still a huge sacrifice.”

“Guess some things are worth it.”

“Speaking of things that are worth it . . .” he says with a sly glint in his eyes, “I heard you and Peter have made up?”

“Smooth, Leeds. Smooth,” she says with a grin, and this time his last name is laced with all the affection that had been missing the last time, and Ned’s smile says it all as he shrugs. “What can I say, I’m rooting for you guys.”

She shakes her head, takes a sip of her drink to avoid his gaze and shoves her shoulder into his. “Shut up.”

He laughs once more and shoves her right back.

She tries to enjoy their small victory, and live in the moment, but part of her is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

_It can’t have been that easy, can it?_

But as the day wears on, and no last-minute disaster strikes, she starts to relax and allows herself to savour it.

It also lets her think about _that other thing_ Ned said.

She’s still thinking of his words later on in the day as she makes her way back to the hospital.

It’s a difficult thing to reconcile.

Because although, technically, Harry’s initial threat of revealing Peter’s secret identity has been rendered moot by the fact he’s the Green Goblin himself, they know for a fact now that he’s actually capable of so much worse than just unmasking Spider-Man – as was evident by what happened to May – and so it still feels like too much of a risk to put their feelings out there.

But is it a risk worth taking? That’s the question.

And it’s May who answers it for her.

When she arrives at the hospital and knocks on her door, she’s surprised to hear May herself croak out a “come in.”

The relief she feels as she slips inside the room to see the older woman sitting propped up in her hospital bed, smile on her face brightening when she recognises her, almost knocks the breath from MJ’s lungs. She hadn’t realised how worried and scared she’d been for this woman who’d become Peter’s surrogate mother in many ways, and how much she’d come to mean to her too, even though they’d only met the once before.

“MJ!” she says, and her voice is hoarse, still healing from all that smoke, and not forgetting the initial ET tube she’d had stuck down her throat and then the weeks of disuse that followed.

She looks around the room and notes Peter’s absence, and apparently, she doesn’t do a good job of hiding it.

“Oh, Peter’s just gone down to get some coffee. Come in, come in.”

MJ does, walking tentatively forward.

“This is for you,” she says handing over the gift bag. “They said no flowers, so I got you this.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything, sweetheart,” she says, but accepts the bag gratefully.

She watches feeling unusually shy as May pulls out the gift, watching every expression that flickers across her face as she looks down at what she has in her hands.

Because it’s nothing fancy. It’s not a teddy bear, or a box of expensive Belgian chocolates. Nothing like that.

No. It’s a drawing. A simple pencil drawing of a moment that’s embedded itself in her heart the moment she saw it.

Peter wrapping May in a bear hug and pressing a kiss to her temple, Christmas party hats askew on their heads.

“You draw.”

“Doodle mainly. It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s beautiful.”

And then she asks, “does Peter know?”

“It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“I didn’t mean the drawing, MJ. I meant the fact you’re in love with my nephew?”

Oh. _That._

“No.”

There’s no point in denying it.

“Well,” May says, not unkindly, “you best get on that. Not to use a cliché, but sometimes there really isn’t anything else that gets the point across, _life’s too short._ ”

And she knows what it is she’s not saying.

_Look at me._

MJ nods, taking the seat beside her, still faintly warm from where Peter must have been sitting. May reaches out to pat the back of her hand and she thinks the both of them reach a silent understanding then.

Peter returns only a few minutes later with a bright smile and two coffee cups in hand.

One for him. And one for her.

“How did you know I’d come?” she asks as he hands it over to her.

And the sappy idiot answers, “I hoped you would.”

_And yep,_ she thinks.

There’s no point in denying it. At all.

Not anymore.

 

)(

 

It’s a weird feeling. Constantly having MJ’s gaze on him.

It’s only fair, he supposes. Given how often he’d stared at her back at the office. He only wishes he could know what it is she’s thinking, because her expression gives nothing away.

Stranger still, is how when he looks across the bed at her from where he’s sitting on the opposite side of Aunt May, and catches her in the act, she doesn’t avert her gaze. Just carries on staring until he feels the warm flush all over his skin and has to break the gaze himself.

He can feel it.

Saturating the air.

The weight of the unspoken between them. It’s pressing down so heavily on his chest he thinks at this point the only thing that may get rid of the ache is if he were to stand, march across to her side of the room, and just _kiss her._

He swallows and looks anywhere but at her, because clearly that is a bad, _bad_ idea.

But of course, Aunt May decides to be her helpful self right then. She looks not so surreptitiously between the two of them, smirk tilting her lips, and says, “you guys must be so bored. You don’t need to sit with me the whole evening. Why don’t you take her up to your place, Peter?”

“ _Your_ place?” MJ arches an amused brow.

He must be tomato red. He must be. “That’s uh, that’s not what she meant,” he stammers with an outstretched hand and a shake of his head which perfectly epitomises the refrain of _no, no, no._ “Um, she meant, here. There’s um –”

She stands up, doesn’t let him continue his inept, fumbling recovery. “Sure, let’s go. I could do with stretching my legs.”

She doesn’t hang around for him either as she slips out the door, giving Peter no choice but to follow. He stops just before leaving and turns to look at Aunt May, and as expected she’s smiling wide at him with a thumbs up, and he can’t find it in himself to be mad.

He shakes his head at her.

“Love you, Pete.”

“Love you Aunt May,” he replies, grateful for the chance to tell her so again.

MJ’s waiting for him out in the corridor, watching as he gently closes the door behind him.

“So,” she says sticking her hands into the pocket of her jeans and hunching forwards slightly as she rolls onto her toes and then back onto the balls of her feet. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret.”

“You’re terrible at keeping those, you know that right?”

He shakes his head, smiling and just like that he’s feeling at ease once more. Because before anything, MJ is his friend. One of his best friends and wow, he’s missed her.

_So much._

“Follow me,” he says and leads her to the stairwell. She’s close on his heels, can hear the soft thud of her Converses on the steps behind him, the heat of her on his back.

“And we couldn’t take the elevator, why?” she grumbles behind him as they tackle a fourth flight of stairs and he’s not sure how to answer that. Not without confessing the fact he doesn’t think he could have handled being stuck in a small box with her, not with this restless feeling that’s settled in under his skin since he walked into his aunt’s room this afternoon to see her sitting there, just like he knew she would be. She’d been so damn beautiful in that t-shirt Aunt May had gotten her for Christmas, hair done up in a messy bun, curls falling loose to frame the soft expression on her face, which had been aimed solely at him, that for a moment he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Naturally, he says nothing of the sort.

“Because,” he says instead, as he comes to a stop in front of a set of steps cordoned off by a sign that reads ‘only authorised personnel beyond this point’ and jumps over it easily, “it’s the only way to get up here.”

He reaches out a hand for her to take, and he knows she can manage on her own with those long legs of hers, but she doesn’t hesitate.

Slips her hand into his and trusts.

They climb the final set of stairs and he presses down on the latch of the door with the exit sign and pushes it open.

They’re met by the night air as they step out into the inky blue of the sky that stretches for miles around them. Though it’s slightly cooler all the way up here on the hospital’s rooftop, it’s still a warm, sticky, summer night.

It’s remarkably calm and quiet around them, a blanket of peace settling over them. Everything from the air above them, to the city that seems so far away down below, and to the lights of all the skyscrapers and buildings touching the same star-kissed night sky – it all adds to this surreal, otherworldly feel.

She’s still holding his hand as he pulls her forward, before stopping in the centre and releasing her to let her take it all in. He watches her spin on the spot, walk up to the edge and peer down at the city zooming around them – a stark contrast to the stillness up here.

“I’d uh come up here a lot, when everything got –” he starts to say by way of explanation, but then she’s looking back at him, and the rest of the sentence doesn’t need saying.

She breaks their gaze by tilting her head up skyward, the moon a gleaming half crescent sitting there, and he can see her blinking the stars into existence one by one.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes out, before adding a stern, _“and don’t.”_

“Don’t what?” he asks bemused.

“Do that cheesy ass thing where you’re all _‘it is’_ while staring at me like a sappy loser.”

He huffs out a laugh, the sound sudden and bright in the darkness. “You’ve sure got a high opinion of yourself there, Jones.”

“Well having a psychopathic super-villain obsessed with you sure does inflate the ego.”

It cuts through the light-hearted moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

He sighs and walks over towards her. She’s resting both her arms across the wall that lines the edge of the rooftop as she looks over their city once more.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I’m meant to beat him,” he admits quietly.

“We,” she says sharply.

He looks sideways up at her, standing there beside him, their shoulders brushing as he rests his own forearms next to hers.

“How _we’re_ meant to beat him. You’re not alone in this Peter.”

He says nothing, his heart so full its spilling over and clogging up his throat.

“First thing we’re gonna need is proof,” she continues, standing a little straighter and he pushes away from the wall and turns to face her. “I think if we can prove he’s the Green Goblin, maybe that he even killed Norman, then we’ve got him.”

“It’s not as easy as that though is it? He’s stronger than me. More powerful.”

“Maybe. But I’d never bet against Spider-Man,” she says then, before adding quietly, “and he’s got something that that asshole doesn’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“People who love him.”

And it feels like a confession. The precipice of something that’s been a long time coming.

“You know the same goes for you MJ. You can’t try and handle him on your own again. I can’t have anything happen to you.”

“Nothing’s gonna happ-”

“MJ,” he says softly, cutting her off and stepping even closer until there’s not much left between them. And something in his tone must catch because her gaze softens and she’s staring at him again. Just like she had been back downstairs in the safety of Aunt May’s hospital room. Because out here, alone, it’s decidedly _unsafe_ as his own eyes run the dangerous path down the slope of her nose, and to her lips.

And somehow, they’re back in that moment.

That moment before the phone rang and turned his world upside down. That moment where the possibilities seemed endless, and wherever the rest of her sentence would have gone then, he knows his world would have changed just as much, but in a completely different way.

It’s terrifying.

More terrifying than leaping off the edge of a rooftop but he wants to chase that feeling, and thinks she wants the same. Thinks they could spend a lifetime doing just that and it’d _be enough._

“MJ,” he says again this time, but it’s barely a breath spilt from his lips and he thinks even his heart must be pounding louder than her whispered name. And to her it must sound like a question because she answers it by closing the distance between them and dropping her forehead until it’s pressing against his. Her fingers find his once more, slipping between each other’s as if they’ve found their natural resting place, and they don’t have to search ever again.

“Okay,” she whispers, breath against his lips, eyes shuttering close, and he takes it for both answer and permission as she says it once more. _“Okay.”_

And it’s all he needs to slip the hand not tangled with hers into her hair and pull her down to meet him halfway.

A tentative, trembling first touch of lips gives way to a surge, hot and sure, and he doesn’t know who’s melting against who as she kisses him back with just as much fervour.

And all he can think is  _finally_ , until he's thinking no more.

She releases his hand to wind both of them around his neck, fingers scraping the back of his scalp and he thinks that groan, low in his throat is all him as he pulls her in tighter against him.

He doesn’t think either one of them is ever letting go.

Not any time soon.

But this is the city that never sleeps.

And it calls once more with the distant sound of sirens and responsibility, and so slowly, reluctantly, the press of his lips against hers gentles, and he’s pulling away. Not keen to break the moment just yet, he rests his forehead against hers and they stay like that for a minute longer, breathing each other in.

Her eyes are dark, heavy-lidded when she finally opens them, and this close he can’t focus, just knows that they’re shining brighter than every star in the sky above them.

“Go get ‘em,” she grins, pressing her lips to his once more and kissing him hard before pulling away.

He smiles dopily back at her.

Flushed, and in love.

He gives her one last look before leaping off the edge.

And after all this time, the rush of swinging and falling head first into danger is still there.

He’s just not sure it’ll ever hit the mark in quite the same way again.

Not after that.

 

))((

 


	11. July 2028; Issue No. 111

 

                                            

 

Happiness.

It’s a weird feeling.

Not one MJ is used to and one – through twenty-six years’ worth of life lessons – she’s learnt not to trust.

Because that feeling of waiting for inevitable disaster to strike doesn’t dissipate. No, it lingers, circling the air above her, breathing down her neck, a scythe-shaped shadow at her back.

Sure, she’s probably being overdramatic, but the fact remains: Harry and his Green Goblin alter-ego are still out there and she’s not naïve enough to think he’d disappear so easily, quietly. That he won’t slink back from whatever circle of hell he came from for one last dramatic showdown.

It’s not his style.

Loud, showy and obnoxious is more like it.

There’s also the small matter of the fact she and Peter, surprisingly, aren’t being all that shy about their newfound relationship status, and she’s sure news of it has reached Harry in his dark, dank cave, by now.

But that doesn’t mean they’re being super obvious about it, either.

And she’s definitely not holding back on the ferocity of her death glares when asked about it.

Because their relationship is no one’s damn business but their own.

And she would have liked to have kept it that way, but Peter, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo on time.

The following morning – after that pretty special and, _whisper it,_ magical moment under the stars on the hospital rooftop, a moment which she’s shamelessly replayed in the safe haven of her own mind hundreds of times since – Peter had rushed into the office, only five minutes late (by some miracle), and after nearly spilling both coffee cups he’d been holding in all his eager puppy glory, had come to a stop in front of her, set the cups down and then without so much as blinking had bent his head and pressed his smiling lips to hers in greeting for the whole wide world to see.

Okay, well, the whole of _NY Pulse_ to see.

And then there’d been silence.

0 dB of sound.

The whole room had stopped, and she couldn’t blame them because he’d fried her brain in that moment, too.

Because there she’d been, expecting a pink-cheeked, stuttering Peter Parker, to stumble shyly into the office that morning, wanting to discreetly pull her aside to check and triple check that the night before had actually happened, and then tiptoe around _the talk_ of establishing just what was going on between them for the rest of the day.

But _nope._

Nope. Instead, he’d kissed her like they’ve been doing this for years, before finally registering her bewildered, blinking response and had whispered, wide-eyed: _“Oh. Was I not supposed to do that?”_

And look, she’s only human, after all, and had been resisting that stupid face and those damn brown eyes for a hell of a long time.

Makes sense then that that would be the moment she cracked.

And so, she’d stopped thinking, yanked him down hard enough that he’d nearly toppled onto her lap and proceeded to kiss him soundly back.

Ned had whistled the loudest, and there may have been a few cheers and catcalls, but she’d ignored them all for the way he’d laughed into her mouth and curved his lips against hers.

Sadly, there haven’t been any replays of that moment since.

They’ve been keeping it pretty PG-rated at work so far, but that hasn’t stopped her from ogling him from across the room to her heart’s content throughout the day – _just because she can._

And Peter’s not much better with his soft, dopey smile and emoji heart-eyes, following her around – _just like he’s doing right now_.

He catches her gaze, smile turning into a full-blown grin when she rolls her eyes at him and mouths _“loser”._ She can see him feign confusion, wrinkling up his brow, mouth opening and . . .

_Smack!_

A scrunched up post-it flies right into his face, and Ned Leeds finally gets himself on the scoreboard.

Peter turns to look at his oldest friend, betrayed, while she smothers her amusement. “What was that for?”

“You’re gross. The both of you. So. Gross.”

“What happened to ‘I’m rooting for you guys’?” MJ teases from her desk.

Ned glares back at her.

MJ’s only response is to smirk and turn her gaze back to the blinking cursor sitting in the middle of her unedited article. She’s been working on it for the last week, trying to use her arsenal of words to highlight the woeful underfunding of several female empowerment charities here in New York – a cause that means a lot to her. She’d had to beg, okay rather put forward a solid, State Debate Championship winning, argument for Harrington to give in and let her write it.

“Aw you were rooting for us buddy?” Peter, the little shit, asks not so innocently.

“Like I had a choice,” Ned grumps. “All I’ve had to do is listen to you go on and on for _months_ about how pretty MJ is, how much you lov-”

“Hey!” Peter cuts him off, and of course his aim is dead-on as he throws the fluorescent pink ball of paper back in Ned’s face.

Ned doesn’t react, just manages to deadpan back in a manner that makes her proud: “Your girlfriend is a bad influence on you.”

“You started it.”

And as MJ turns again to watch the ridiculous back-and-forth bickering, she wonders not for the first time, how these two idiots have come to mean so much to her.

And she can feel it once more. Bubbling in her chest. Warm and surprising, and so _so_ good.

_Happiness._

If this is it, she wants to hold onto it for as long as the universe will let her.

She’s gonna wrap her hands around it tight and won’t let go without a fight.

Because she’s waited long enough for it.

And she deserves it.

They all do.

 

)(

 

It’s a little past 2pm when Harrington calls him into his office. It’s after the postprandial laze has started to settle in, and Peter’s being the least productive he’s been all day, and he can’t blame the distracting way MJ keeps biting down on her lower lip for the lack of progress he’s made, either.

He hopes Harrington’s not looking for an update, because as has already been established many times over, he’s a crappy liar.

Thankfully, there’s no J. Jonah Jameson sitting imperiously in the chair this time.

No, it’s Harrington himself, hunched over his keyboard, glasses slipping down his nose as he blinks at his screen and waves for him to come in with his free hand.

“Come in, come in.”

Peter does; moves to shut the door but Harrington calls out, “leave it open. This won’t take a minute.” He clicks his mouse once, twice, and then sits back and faces Peter head-on.

“How’s your piece coming along?”

_Damn._

“Oh um . . . great.”

He doesn’t even remember what he was assigned to write about, that’s how _great._

If Harrington believes him, or even cares for that matter, he can’t tell because he says nothing else on the topic.

“I need you to take that camera of yours and go take some stock shots for our August issue. We’ve been recycling the same summer images for the last two years and they’re an eyesore.”

“Sure, yeah, no problem,” he rambles in relief.

An unexpected break from the office? Spending the rest of a Friday afternoon engaging in an activity he considers more hobby than work? He’d be crazy to say no.

“Shame you’ve not managed to get us any more close-ups of Spider-Man,” Harrington sighs then. And the unexpected comment puts a check on his bubbling glee. Peter can feel the guilt stirring in his gut at the false promise imbued by playing his trump card so early on in his career at _NY Pulse,_ only to never peak quite so high again.

“But,” his boss continues, “those photos you took last year were pretty great. I’m sure we’ll get good use from those for another few years at least.”

Peter takes the compliment with an earnest “thanks” before trying his luck.

“You know em- um Jones helped a lot with those photographs. With uh . . . angles, subject choice and so on . . .” he lies, because all MJ had done that day in December was tease him non-stop about his uninspired choice of locations and shots. But he thinks it’ll be an easy sell, because Harrington had believed it then, no questions asked.

And this is no different.

Harrington stares at him. “ _Jones_ did, huh?”

_Apparently not._

Peter shifts his weight. “Uh yes. Yes, she did.”

He leans back in his chair and though he doesn’t fill it quite like Jameson does, and he only looks like a man playing at boss, not enough to intimidate or strike fear in his heart, he still feels the prickle of discomfort crawling under his skin because of the subject matter.

“Contrary to popular belief around here, I’m not completely oblivious to what goes on in this office of mine.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that as he soundlessly opens and closes his mouth.

“Fine,” Harrington relents with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and dislodging his glasses. He removes them and there are fingerprints all over the lenses. He uses the edge of his shirt to clean them. “Go. Take Jones with you.”

Peter nods and turns away, but not before Harrington offers a piece of advice.

“Oh and Parker? Don’t mess it up.”

He gets the distinct feeling it’s not the photographs he’s talking about.

He puts the thought aside and makes a beeline for MJ before Harrington changes his mind. He stops behind her and bends to whisper in her ear. To her credit she doesn’t jump, although she does spin slightly in her seat and he can see she’s not impressed with him sneaking up on her.

“Hey, so since you were so great at it last time, how do you feel about skipping the rest of the day and being my DP again?”

She raises a brow and turns to face him fully.

“Keep talking.”

“Harrington needs me to take some stock photos around the city for the magazine and he’s agreed to let you come.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d want to spend the whole afternoon taking a romantic stroll with you, Parker.”

His lips twitch, but he manages to keep a straight face. “Who said anything about a romantic stroll? This is strictly work.”

She watches him carefully and then blows out a breath, before turning back to her screen. “Shame.”

For a cold minute there he falls for it, but then he can see the gleam in her eyes and the way her lips are curling up into a smile that she’s powerless to contain and god, _he really wants to kiss her._

But they’ve agreed to keep the PDA down to a minimum because Flash’s wiggling eyebrows and cheesy double thumbs up is definitely a mood-killer.

“Getting rusty, Jones,” he teases. “You nearly had me there.”

She spins back and pats him on the cheek. “Lies. I totally had you.”

He shakes his head at her as she continues, “just give me a minute.”

Peter nods and returns to his desk to grab his camera while she finishes up and finds Ned staring at him as he does.

“No, I don’t wanna come too, thanks for asking dude.”

And that’s the second time today guilt makes its unwanted appearance.

“I mean, you totally could?” he offers with an apologetic grimace.

Ned looks back at him likes he’s a dumbass. “And I’m totally kidding. I’ve spent the entire morning watching you guys make eyes at each other, I could do with a break.”

“Sorry,” Peter winces.

Ned shrugs. “Just bring me back the pack of Skittles you owe me, and I’ll get over it.”

“Deal,” he agrees, squeezing his best friend on the shoulder as he goes.

It worries him a little, that maybe Ned had downplayed how much it bothered him not to be coming along, but then he turns to check one more time and he’s staring back at them with a smile – genuine and heartfelt – and he thinks that Ned Leeds is the best of them, and he and MJ are richer for having him in their lives.

Still, he’s quiet on the elevator going down, and MJ picks up on it. Doesn’t even have to ask him why.

“Ned will be fine.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“Would be even better if he’d just ask Betty out already.”

He does a double-take at that. “What? Betty? _Betty and Ned?”_

“You’ve not noticed?”

He shakes his head, mutters mournfully, “I’m a terrible friend.”

“Relax Peter,” she says as they reach the ground floor foyer and head towards the exit. They throw Bill distracted waves as they walk past and squeeze into the same compartment of the revolving doors, before stepping outside into the New York sunshine. “It’s a recent development, and you’ve been preoccupied. Understandably.”

He hums, because although it’s true, he still feels bad, and resolves to ask Ned about it later and offer a few words of encouragement.

It’s unbearably hot and bright out. He’s thankful once again to Harrington for his relaxed dress code that allows him to be in a simple crew neck t-shirt instead of a buttoned-up Oxford shirt in this sweltering heat.

MJ’s dressed just as casually with her curls scraped away from her face and tied securely at the back of her neck. Walking beside him, he notes the careful distance she’s keeping between them. Given the already unbearable temperatures it makes sense, but the part of him that still can’t believe this is happening worries if it means something else.

The relationship is still so new, and they haven’t outright talked about what they are.

He wants to reach across and hold her hand and while he dithers about doing just that, MJ continues on unaware of his inner struggle. “How’s May doing, anyway?” she asks.

“Great. Really great, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The physios have been getting her up and moving. They’ve dialled down the painkillers too and the bandage is coming off early next week.”

“That’s great. Really great,” she echoes distractedly and then he realises that maybe there’s something weighing on her mind just as heavily.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, and he’s pushed a little closer to her by a man barging past him in the opposite direction. The guy is too busy talking urgently into his cell phone to turn around and apologise. Peter doesn’t care. He cares about the woman standing next to him, and she seems to be struggling with her next words, which is enough to trigger his in-built alarms. “MJ?” he prompts.

She sighs heavily. “Do you ever get the feeling that everything’s going too well at this point? I’m not used to feeling like this. Feeling happy.”

“You’re happy?” he asks like an idiot. Like it’s the only thing he heard.

She rolls her eyes and looks sideways down at him, and says flatly, “I don’t know. _Am I?”_

He grins but then immediately sobers when he rewinds a little and the rest of her sentence sinks in. And he gets it. Just what she’s talking about.

“You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, worrying her bottom lip.

And he can’t help it, can’t stop the urge he has to reach around her back, tuck his hand into her waist and pull her to his side.

And so he does.

And she immediately stiffens.

_Oh_ he thinks with a lump in his throat and instinctively moves to step away, resolving to forget it as an awkwardly aborted side-hug.

But MJ has other plans as she grabs hold of his hand on her waist and keeps him in place.

“I just can’t shake this feeling Harry’s been watching us this entire time," she gives by way of explanation for her initial hesitation.

It’s a stark reminder that the Green Goblin is still out there and caught up in the bliss of the last few weeks, they’ve forgotten that. Forgotten too just what had set him off last time and had fuelled his fiery rampage in Forest Hills that fateful night. And he understands her reaction now and thinks she had it right the first time, and tells her so:

“No, you’re right. We should . . .” He goes to tug his hand away and move back again, but MJ slings her free arm around his shoulders and keeps walking, instead.

“I’m not spending the rest of my life living in fear, Peter. I’m done with it. And as for the Green Goblin? We can deal with that fucking creep another day. Cos today, I was promised a romantic stroll . . .”

He shakes his head. “Working. We’re out here working.”

“Sure we are,” she says then, before turning her head and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

And he thinks, _yep_.

Work, photographs, Harry Osborn and the Green Goblin. It can all wait till later.

Hopefully, much _much_ later.

 

)(

 

Sadly, they don’t get another day.

And to be fair, they’ve had several Harry free weeks, and MJ knows that the sooner they deal with the Green Goblin, the sooner that belt around her chest will loosen and she won’t feel the heavy pressure of impending doom pressing down on her.

Still, she doesn’t expect it to happen as soon as they walk back into the Goodman Building.

Peter had managed to get several shots of New York basking in the sunshine during their afternoon stroll, but they’re interspersed with several sneaky shots of her, and as payback, she’d photobombed a fair few of his otherwise perfect pictures and rendered them useless.

But Peter didn’t seem to mind in the least.

His smile is brighter than she’s ever seen it and enough to dispel the looming dark clouds of doubt and worry hell-bent on ruining her happy moment.

When they walk back in through the revolving doors and into the foyer, Peter’s still beaming, still holding her hand, and she doesn’t realise until she spots Bill’s smiling face and raised, questioning eyebrows.

“Mr Parker. Miss Jones,” he says by way of greeting.

“Hi Bill,” Peter waves with his free hand, refusing to let go of her hand, even though she’s tugging at it.

His eyes flicker between them but he doesn’t comment. “Before you two disappear, there’s a package for you, Miss Jones.”

And she feels it.

The instant way in which Peter stiffens beside her, the grip on her hand tightening.

Because the last time a package came for her, it had been from the green-horned devil himself.

And Bill can sense the change in atmosphere and is a little slow on the uptake, but it comes to him eventually as he lets out a long, drawn out, “ohhh! Oh no. No. You don’t need to worry. This was delivered by Ernie. It’s a legitimate parcel, I had them check it over. It’s stamped with Jameson Inc. See? Here?”

MJ takes a step forward, Peter close behind her, to peer at the small package Bill slides onto the counter top. It’s half the size of a shoe box, and well she can’t hear anything suspicious, _like a ticking bomb_ , coming from it, so that’s something.

And indeed, the Jameson Inc. stamp is on there, though the return address isn’t the same as the building they’re standing in. She doesn’t recognise it, but she has an inkling as to who it’s from, especially when she eyes the handwritten _FAO. M. Jones_ across the top of the box and the penmanship is vaguely recognisable.

MJ reaches out to take it, but Peter’s whispered, “MJ, don’t, what if –” stops her.

“It’s fine,” she whispers back. And then confidently, and with no room for argument, implores, “trust me.”

Peter sighs, eyes searching her face, before relenting with the tiniest of nods.

It’s light. Like its been filled with nothing but polystyrene packing peanuts, but a gentle shake reveals a weight shifting from side to side.

“Thanks Bill,” MJ says then, looking back up at the friendly face sitting behind the desk.

Bill tilts his head in acknowledgement, eyes glittering as he straightens his hat a fraction. “Glad to see you’re still not going it alone,” he says meaningfully, eyes batting back and forth between her and Peter.

Peter flushes.

MJ says nothing.

“Good for you.”

Creeping embarrassment stops her from saying anything more than “see you later, Bill,” and walking away.

It’s not until they’re in the elevator heading back up to the twenty-third floor that Peter asks, “what do you think it is?”

“I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure I know who it’s from.”

“What do you want to do?”

And the question he’s really asking is: _do you want to open that here?_ She thinks it over, and it only takes her two floors to reach a decision – just as the doors open to the stainless-steel lettering of _NY Pulse_ –

_“Not here.”_

 

)(

 

They decide on Peter’s apartment.

It makes sense.

Away from prying eyes and PTSD inducing flashbacks of when MJ last received a ‘package’.

MJ insists she’s fine and her certainty that this isn’t a repeat of Valentine’s Day is reassuring only in that _she_ absolutely believes it and he trusts her judgement completely.

And so when she says _it’s okay_ , he believes her.

Doesn’t mean he’s not super cautious about it though.

Which means when they all end up standing around his coffee table later that evening, innocent-looking package sitting smack bang in the middle of it, he’s the one who offers to open it up and doesn’t take no for an answer.

The three of them huddle around him and watch as he pulls at the marked strip of cardboard across the top, and it easily comes away to leave behind two flaps jutting open. Ned and MJ are literally holding their breaths beside him, and he thinks he must be doing the same.

He pushes the flaps aside and this time there are no decaying rose petals, just hundreds of packaging peanuts staring back at them. Peter delves in, fingers digging around in the polystyrene until they hit the edge of something smooth and cold at the bottom.

He pulls it out.

Silence reigns as both Ned and MJ press into him from either side and stare down at what’s in his hands.

_“Is that a freakin’ iPhone?”_ Ned finally breathes out.

“As if Jameson would use anything less for a burner?” MJ answers as if she’s talking about something completely banal and ordinary, like the weather.

“Burner? Jameson? _What?”_

MJ doesn’t answer Ned, simply puts her hand out towards Peter, palm up, and he wordlessly hands the phone over. She presses the button on the side and the screen lights up, and there against a default background and under the current time is the one word:

_Voicemail._

She wastes no time in putting it on speaker before setting it down on the coffee table and pressing play.

There’s a crackle of noise and then the slam of a door, followed by a hacking cough and Peter imagines a plume of cigar smoke as the familiar voice of one J. Jonah Jameson comes through:

_“ . . . Goddamn technology. This better work . . . It better be you, Jones, listening to this message, or this’ll just be another to add to my long list of colossal fuck-ups . . .”_ he trails off and breathes heavily into the recording. _“And get Parker, too. See if he can’t kick his pal Spider-Man up the ass already. Ha!_ Some superhero. _Osborn should be in the ground already.”_ There’s another hacking cough and grunt, before Jameson starts up once more. _“I might not like you kids all that much, hell I don’t like anyone, but I trust you Jones. I trust the pain-in-the-ass, crusading do-gooder in you wants to see Harry go down as much as I do. Well, no one wants to see that lunatic go down as much as I do. But anyway,”_ he clears his throat, _“to do that you’re gonna need what any self-respecting investigative journalist needs – proof . . .”_ There’s a muffled sound of a voice calling in the background, distinctly female. Jameson lets out a few more choice expletives, before finishing hurriedly, _“listen. Don’t waste your time at Oscorp. The mansion. Osborn Mansion. Closer to home. The library. Some hidden lair. In one of those fancy fucking filing cabinets in Norman’s office. I haven’t got a clue. But it’s there. It’s got to be.”_ And then finally, gravelly voice low and hard, he finishes up with one last, barking order: _“Get the son-of-a-bitch.”_

As the automated female voice announcing _end of message_ fills the resounding silence, Peter’s left with an overwhelming sense of unease.

And it’s Ned who gives voice to it.

“It’s a trap. Gotta be a trap.”

Peter twists his head to look at him, and though he doesn’t disagree exactly, he doesn’t quite agree either. “Why do you say that?”

Ned goggles at him. “He’s asking you to walk into the psycho’s house with _nothing._ He’s given us nothing. What proof? Where exactly? The office? Try the bedroom? Search for some secret, hidden room? All for some unidentified _proof?_ Dude, there’s nothing there.”

And Peter feels that little bit of hope that had started to bloom at the thought of maybe being a few steps ahead of Harry Osborn for once wane. Because, of course, Ned is absolutely right. It didn’t even sound like Jameson. He sounded rushed, harassed, even a little frightened. Could it be he’d recorded the message under duress? That Harry had somehow got to him and made him do it?

But no, that sounded like his wife in the background. There hadn’t been any sounds of distress muffled in the distance to suggest anything sinister being afoot.

Ned’s not finished though, as he continues with another very good point.

“Plus, there’s the fact he’s assuming MJ knows what the hell he’s talking about. As far as we know he’s only admitted his suspicions to Spider-Man. He thinks MJ’s still dating Harry, so _why_ would he come to _her_ with this?”

Peter looks to MJ. Except she’s no longer standing beside him. At some point she’d moved forwards and had picked the phone up off the coffee table, wandered over to the kitchen and pulled herself up onto one of the stools by the breakfast counter. There’s a pensive expression on her face as she turns the phone over in her hand; fingers leaving greasy streaks across the previously pristine screen.

“MJ?” he asks. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she says after a pause. “Maybe Ned’s right.”

“ _I am_. I am right,” Ned says, before looking down at his watch. _“Shit_. It’s getting late. Guys, I’m sorry, I gotta go. Promised my mom I’d pop by and fix their computer – she swears she broke it.” He shakes his head at the ridiculous thought as he heads for the door. “Told her they’re actually pretty hard to break, but . . .” he shrugs his shoulders, and trails off.

With his arm outstretched, hand on the doorknob, he turns back a final time. “Promise me you guys won’t do anything stupid?”

“Stupid like what?” Peter asks, although he knows exactly what he means.

“Like breaking into the Osborn Mansion without an _actual_ plan.”

“Don’t worry, Leeds,” MJ answers for him. “I won’t let him.”

Ned eyes them both, before breathing out. And he must believe them because relief eases the tension in his face. Stressed is not a good look on him and Peter hates that he’s been dragged into this whole mess. Although he also knows there’s nowhere else Ned would rather be than beside them and helping out his friends. And well, this thing with the Green Goblin affects him too. Affects them all.

Peter watches him leave with a raised hand and then lets out a long, heavy breath as the door shuts behind him.

And then it’s just him and MJ.

Alone.

She’s sitting with her elbow resting on the counter top, bent knees pressing into the kitchen cupboard below as her feet kiss the floor. That thoughtful expression is still on her face as if Jameson’s message is continuing to play on loop inside her head.

Finally, she seems to realise that he’s standing there, shakes herself out of her reverie, and breathes out. “Coffee?”

He nods.

“Sure.”

 

)(

 

She’s still thinking about it an hour later.

The message replaying in her mind, catching on certain words, phrases, and they all come together to form a hazy thought in her mind, a half-formed spectre, just out of reach of searching fingertips. And it makes her pulse thrum, rapid under her skin, as if she’s running a race and the finishing line is in sight.

Not far to go now.

“Are you finished with that?” A voice asks, and it takes a second for her to realise it’s Peter standing there beside her, frowning down at the coffee cup that’s half-full and long cold by now.

“Uh yeah,” she stammers. “Sorry.” She hands it over to him, fingers brushing his as she does. “Guess I didn’t really want that coffee, after all.”

He takes it from her and walks over to the other side of his small open floor kitchen and deposits both cups in the sink.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

And it registers that he’s asked her before but can’t really remember what they’ve been talking about since Ned left them.

“Yeah.” She gives him a flicker of a smile and shrugs. “Weird day.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out in agreement, until there’s nothing left between them but silence.

It’s awkward and tense, and nothing like the ease of the afternoon they’d spent together, flirting and grinning like two giddy teenagers. It seems almost like a lifetime ago now.

Peter leans back against the kitchen counter, fingers drumming a staccato beat, out of time to the ticking wall clock in the living area.

And it’s then that she realises just how late it’s gotten.

She pulls herself to her feet and stretches, the movement drawing Peter’s gaze.

“I should go.”

A beat.

And another.

“Or . . . _you could stay?”_

His eyes are on hers and they’re not shying away, and suddenly everything else seems so far away – Harry, Jameson, the damned voice message and all the questions it raised.

In this moment it’s just her and Peter, and _nothing else matters._

And so, she decides to let go – to get out of her head, give into the pull to live in the _now_ and simply let tomorrow come.

She manages to keep her voice steady as she teases, “I’m not that kinda girl, Peter. You’re gonna have to do better than an afternoon walking the streets of New York, _working._ ”

“I thought it was a _romantic stroll?”_

She shakes her head at him but his answering grin eases into a soft smile, and for some reason it’s worse than the teasing – her heart skips several beats and she wonders how she’s still breathing.

“I know,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought it’s late and I’ll take the couch, and you can take the bed –”

And she remembers the last time he made the same offer, and how the temptation remains. Stronger than before. And there’s no real reason to fight it. Not anymore.

The last few weeks have been such a blur, and although they’ve been trying to keep their relationship low-key – what with Harry’s unspoken threat hanging over them – they’ve never really found themselves alone like this to challenge the boundaries. To actually name the lines they’ve been crossing and dancing along since that night on the rooftop.

Except, staring at him now . . .

The genuine anxiety of doing the right thing, the burning desire to make sure he’s doing right _by her_ , taking into account _what she wants_ , agenda free and without expectation, shines bright from his eyes and is written all over his face. It knocks hard at the crumbling bricks of her foundations – the ones that were all wrong from the very start. Laid down brick by brick by the charlatans scattered over the years – her mother, her father, Harry, every worthless asshole that wanted to dull her shine. With a single look, he’s hammering down that wall and rebuilding it – _the right way._

And so, staring at him now, she doesn’t want to talk.

Doesn’t really need to.

She takes a step forward, then another, and watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows the nearer she gets, and MJ feels the thrill of power that was always hers but had got lost along the way.

Maybe this is how he feels when he’s sailing through the skies, between skyscrapers, chasing sirens, webbing bad guys to graffitied walls and saving kittens from high branches. This is what it feels like when he has his suit on.

Freeing.

Powerful.

_Right._

And her decision must show on her face when she stops a hairbreadth away from him.

When he speaks, his voice is low, a quiet, rumbling tremor she feels against her skin. “You’re staying?”

“I’m staying.”

“Good,” he nods, before rising onto his toes and pressing his lips to hers.

And when she blindly pulls him by his t-shirt towards his bedroom, he follows her lead, relinquishing control with the changing tempo of the dance, and she never knew it could feel like this.

_Love,_ she thinks, as he kicks the door shut behind them.

_This is what it’s supposed to be._

And she’s never settling for less.

Ever again.

 

)(

 

Tomorrow comes, as it always does, desired or not, with the rising sun, and the sound of the city coming to life in the distance.

As the morning light streams in through his window, Peter finds himself wanting to stay in this moment for as long as he can.

There’s a strange sense of calm that takes over him – a belief that everything’s going to be okay. He feels at peace, content, and the warmth that fills him from head to toe has everything to do with _her –_ wrapped tight around him and soundly asleep.

Who would have thought?

Michelle Jones is a _snuggler._

A smile splits his face as he rolls his head to the side and is greeted by the tickle of her hair against his mouth and nose.

He pushes back a fraction so he can get a better look at her in all her summer morning, sun-kissed, sleeping glory and commit the picture to memory.

Her hair is a riot of curls against his pillows, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, lips slightly parted and chapped, his t-shirt creased but fitting her as if it was hers all along. Her arm is draped across his stomach, legs tangled in his, and she looks so damn comfy and peaceful . . .

“Stop creeping, Parker.”

And the illusion is shattered.

He snorts.

Of course she’s awake.

But there’s a smile inching its way into her pillow as she blinks her eyes open.

And God, he thinks.

_He’s so in love with her._

And the words dance there, on the tip of his tongue, as it sinks in that he’s never said the words aloud.

And maybe, just maybe, the moment is now?

As schmoopy and cheesy as it would be, he feels his heart is gonna burst with it, and he can’t _not_ say it. He has to.

But then she’s rolling away with a yawn and the moment is gone.

He stamps down on the disappointment; there’ll be other chances, he tells himself.

She lifts her head, jamming her elbow into her pillow and props herself up as she looks down at him. “Morning,” she whispers, and there’s something so shy and endearing about the way she’s looking at him, and it’s so unlike her.

But maybe, he realises, this _is_ her.

With everything she puts forward to the rest of the world stripped away.

“Morning,” he smiles softly back at her. The moment holds until he decides to open his mouth. “So, _last night . . .”_

She raises a brow and doesn’t help him out of the hole he knows he’s about to dig himself.

He feels his cheeks start to warm. “You’re um . . . okay . . . with what we uh . . . what happened . . ?”

She takes ten, long, drawn-out, seconds before answering.

“No, Peter. I hated it.”

He blinks at her.

And then he breathes out, a smile breaking out on his face because he’s getting better at this.

Better at reading her.

She answers him with a shake of her head and mutters “idiot” with the kind of affection that makes his heart do a triple axel and land with a juddering thud. She leans forward and kisses him, resting her forehead against his when she pulls away. He threads his fingers through her hair, unable to resist, and keeps her there.

“I wish we could stay here all day.”

MJ closes her eyes and groans, before pushing herself up to a sitting position. “Wish we could do, too, but . . .” she trails off and he hears what she’s not saying.

Harry. Green Goblin. Responsibility.

_And there goes the peace and calm . . ._

“Okay,” she says finally, heavy with decision, before kissing the corner of his mouth and dodging the hands that instinctively reach for her. “I’m gonna shower, you can put the coffee on.”

He reluctantly lets her go and with a stretch and a yawn pushes himself out of bed. He grabs a clean t-shirt and pulls it on, before stumbling out of his bedroom and not bothering to check his reflection in the mirror. His hair is in complete disarray but there’s still a smile on his face as he walks into the kitchen, lasting only as long as it takes for his eyes to fall on the iPhone sitting there on the counter top where MJ had left it last night.

His mind runs over it again as he sets about brewing coffee and making breakfast.

Was Ned right?

Was it a trap?

MJ’s out not ten minutes later, hair still wet, leaving damp patches on the shoulders of the t-shirt she’s wearing.

Another one of his, he realises.

She takes the stool she was sitting on last night and picks up the same phone he’d been periodically staring at.

He hands over her coffee and it’s a repeat of last night, as she sits there, brow furrowed in thought once more as she stares down at the blank screen.

“Any plans for today?” he asks her.

“Hmm?” She looks up at him and shakes her head. “No.”

“I was gonna head over and see Aunt May later today? If you wanted to come?”

She says nothing.

“MJ?”

“Oh um, I forgot. I actually promised Liz we’d do brunch since we’re both free this weekend.”

Everything in him screams that there’s something she’s not saying but he lets it go. Because he’s got to trust that she’ll tell him when she’s ready. So, he takes a breath and says, “okay, well maybe we can meet up later with Ned, and figure out what we’re gonna do about _that.”_ He tilts his head in the direction of the phone in MJ’s hand.

She nods, before pushing herself to stand and walks over to him. Bending ever so slightly she presses her lips to his and smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”

It’s not until after she’s gone, Peter realises he now knows exactly what a real smile looks like on MJ’s face.

And that?

That hadn’t been a smile at all.

 

)(

 

She didn’t lie.

Not exactly.

She had promised to spend more time with Liz. They just hadn’t specified which weekend.

But there was nothing she could do about the timing.

It wasn’t her fault that it had started to come together right then – sitting on that same stool in Peter’s kitchen. The haze of thoughts rattling at the back of her mind since she’d first heard that recorded voicemail had started to sharpen around the edges and come into focus.

And just like that, _she’d known._

But she hadn’t wanted to get anyone’s hopes up. Not until she could be a hundred percent certain of her hunch.

She comforts herself with the fact that when she does twist her apartment key in the lock of her front door, Liz is standing there in the kitchen, flipping pancakes.

Ergo, _not a lie._

“Hey stranger,” Liz smiles at her, faltering when her eyes drop to the t-shirt she’s wearing.

A mischievous glimmer sparks to life in her eyes. “Since when are you a fan of Star Wars?”

“Since always.” MJ answers back, collapsing onto the couch. “And people who aren’t are lying to themselves.”

Liz turns the hob off and walks over to the living area. “Mmhm,” she hums, taking her armchair as she gestures to MJ’s _everything_ , “so, are you finally gonna tell me who he is?”

Isn’t that the question?

Because she knows _he’s Peter Parker._

The guy who changed everything the second his clumsy ass collided with her that day all those months ago, spilling coffee down her shirt; the guy who had been endlessly kind and patient when she’d gone out of her way to freeze him out without explanation; the guy who had ignored all that had gone before and befriended her no questions, no expectations; the guy who had made her smile and laugh and believe that yes, there were good men out there.

But she also knows _he’s Spider-Man._

The guy who dons a mask and makes it his responsibility to make sure the streets of New York are just that little bit safer each night; the guy who helps old ladies cross the road and gives out directions to the lost with a grin under his mask and an extra pep in his step; the guy who had saved her; the guy who would run head first into trouble, without thinking, just to save the people he loves.

And she also knows _he’s the man_ she _loves._

The man she’d do anything to protect, including faking a relationship with an emotionally manipulative bastard who also happens to be a closeted psychopathic supervillain.

And who still has him in his crosshairs . . .

Well, _not on her watch._

Because to answer her friend’s question:

_“He’s everything.”_

Liz stares at her, open-mouthed, because yes. That is quite possibly the cheesiest shit she’s ever said, but it scares the ever-loving crap out of her, because it’s _the truth._

“Okay, hang on, wait. Hold that mind-blowing thought. I’m gonna grab the food, and you’re gonna spill _everything.”_

MJ shakes her head as she watches Liz run off to the kitchen.

And it’s as she does that that she slips her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, scrolls through her messages until she comes to the one she’s searching for.

And there it is.

Glaring at her.

Two words.

**Your Fault.**

She breathes out and types before she changes her mind:

**Can we talk?**

There’s no reply.

She doesn’t really expect one.

But something tells her, he’s seen it, and he’ll be waiting.

 

)(

 

Peter doesn’t manage to see Aunt May until the late afternoon.

Some last-minute emergency at _NY Pulse_ has Harrington calling him in on his day off with promises to compensate him with another day off in return, just so he can fix one of Flash’s messes. The idiot had left his article, the one due to go to print first thing Monday morning, unfinished, before he’d disappeared on holiday for two weeks.

Which is just like him.

Peter’s no sports expert, and tells Harrington as such, but his reply is simple:

_“Just write something. Anything that vaguely makes sense. It doesn’t have to be Pulitzer worthy, Parker.”_

And so, Peter puts aside his worries of doing a sub-par job, as well as the lingering worries over how MJ left his apartment this morning, and sets to work, but not before sending Aunt May a quick message to know he’s been delayed.

He knows she’ll stress, otherwise, and it’s the last thing she needs.

The Goodman Building on the weekends is a veritable ghost town. At least in comparison to the rest of the week. But that’s easily explained by the fact that _NY Pulse_ and several other Jameson, Inc. publications aren’t putting out daily content, so can get away with reduced staff numbers on the weekend.

Unlike the unlucky souls at the _Daily Bugle_ who work 24/7 and have _no lives._

As Ned likes to say with a grin and no regret: _“Sucks to be them!”_

There’s a whole other story there and it involves asshole _Bugle_ staff writers with superiority complexes and no love lost between the publications _–_ a rivalry that will likely span centuries and survive a nuclear apocalypse.

All in all, though, it’s not a terrible exchange Harrington’s promised him. Because in actual fact, Flash’s article is mostly done, and Peter can admit he’s not a terrible writer, so there’s not all that much for him to do.

But by the time Peter hands it in, gets it approved and sends it over for printing, it’s already 4pm. Add another ten minutes to leave the office and head down in the elevator to the ground floor, he’s already well past the time he told Aunt May that he’d be getting to the hospital by.

And it’s no surprise then that his phone starts ringing as soon as it connects with a signal, the second the elevator doors open.

_“Hey, Peter. Thought I’d be seeing you today?”_

“Hey Aunt May, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . . No, I sent you a message . . .” he explains, and distracted as he is by the phone call, he completely misses the familiar head of curls slipping into the stairwell opposite the elevators. “I’m leaving right now. Yeah . . . I’ll see you soon, okay? Bye.”

He takes the subway in an attempt to avoid the weekend gridlock of traffic to Queens and walks the rest of the distance to the New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

They moved her out of the ICU last week, which means fewer screaming machines and blaring alarms to greet him, and it helps to dial down the anxiety attached with visiting her – especially in contrast to those agonising first few days after the attack.

When he knocks on the door and enters the room, it’s to seeing her sitting upright in bed with a smile on her face. The bandage is still around her head, but like he’d told MJ yesterday, they were planning to remove it soon. She looks brighter and better every day and although her smile always makes his own heart smile, it aches too in reminder of what he’d almost lost.

“Hello Peter. Nice of you to finally make the time to see your poor aunt,” she teases. And he knows she is by the tell-tale glint in her eyes.

He steps into the room and bends down to give her a hug when he reaches her bedside.

“All sorted at the office?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he nods, as she reaches up to ruffle his hair. And he’s never been able to hide much from her, and his worries from this morning must finally be catching up to him and showing on his face as she eyes him critically.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies, not wanting to burden her.

“No,” she says, cocking her head to the side and pointing. “There’s definitely an extra frown line in that forehead of yours. _Right there._ ”

He smiles, but it’s not his best effort.

He drops down into the chair beside her and sighs.

Thinks about just how much he can actually say.

“I’m worried about MJ.”

Now it’s her turn to frown. “Why?”

“I um . . . I’m worried that she may be taking on more than she can handle . . . at work . . . and doesn’t know when to ask for help.”

Because it’s the truth.

And he realises now that that’s what’s bothering him.

He knows there was something she wasn’t saying this morning about that voice message and it would be just like her to keep her theories to herself out of some misguided attempt to keep him and Ned safe.

But keeping the people he loves safe is _his job._

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Aunt May says pointedly, before sighing. “Oh she’s a big girl, Peter. And smart. I mean she figured out you’re –” she lowers her voice to a staged whisper, “ _Spider-Man_ all by herself –”

“She told you that?” Peter interrupts in surprise.

“Oh she’s told me a lot of things,” she retorts with a smug smile.

“Like what?”

“Ah, not for me to tell,” she says tapping the side of her nose. “Anyway,” she continues, “I’m sure she can handle herself, and I know she’s not above asking for help when she needs it. She’s a smart cookie that one. Trust her.”

Peter breathes out and leans back in his chair.

“Fine. Okay. You’re right.”

“I know.”

And as he settles back and makes himself comfortable, eyes raking around the room, landing on all the ‘get well soon’ cards displayed on the window sill, his gaze is drawn to the newest addition. It’s standing propped against a small white teddy bear with a green bow-tie.

He pushes himself to stand, a sudden sinking feeling churning in his gut, his Spidey senses prickling uncomfortably, as he walks around the bed towards the display.

He picks up the new card and opens it up.

Aunt May remains unaware of the way his entire body tenses, the sudden rush of blood in his ears, loud and pulsating, as he looks at the one-lettered signature at the bottom of the blank card.

_H._

“Oh,” she says, but the words sound muffled, like she’s speaking them from a distance, like he’s under water, and he can’t see, and he can’t breathe, and _he needs to breathe._ “I forgot to say, you’ll never guess who popped by to see me . . . _Harry Osborn!_ What a blast from the past. You remember him, don’t you? You boys went to Midtown together, didn’t you?”

“What did he say?” There’s a tremor to the words, his eyes still staring unseeing at the card in his hands.

“Just that he was sorry to hear about what had happened, was in the area on the way to meet his girlfriend and thought he’d say hello. I mean, it was a bit random, but nice of him, I suppose . . .”

White noise.

It’s all white noise.

And panic.

He drops the card and walks over to Aunt May, presses a brief kiss to her head and heads straight for the door. He doesn’t notice the alarm in her eyes at the rapid change in his demeanour.

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

“If he comes by again, _don’t let him in_ . . .”

“Peter . . .”

There’s a tremble of anger in his voice that he can’t hide, and the last thing he wants to do is scare her. He takes a second to breathe in and out, and says as calmly as he can muster:

“I’ll explain later. I promise. But I’ve really got to go now. Just please, _trust me._ ”

“Okay, _okay,_ ” she nods, and she must register the urgency of the moment as she nods again and breathes out. “Okay. Be safe.”

He offers her a tentative smile, but it’s more grimace than anything else.

Once he’s out onto the hospital corridor, Peter reaches immediately for his phone and dials MJ’s number. But, of course, there’s no signal.

There never is.

He heads for the stairwell and flies down the steps, feet barely touching the ground as he takes them two at a time. He barrels out the front entrance of the building and dials again, ignoring the disapproving glares of an elderly couple exiting at the same time.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“MJ! It’s Peter! Harry’s back in the city. Call me as soon as you get this!”

He hangs up and dials another number immediately. It’s answered within two rings.

_“Hey, what’s up?”_

“Ned!”

_“Peter?”_ He instantly sobers. _“What’s wrong?”_

“Harry! He’s been here. At the hospital. To see May . . .”

_“What?! Is she okay?”_

“She’s fine. But I think he’s going after MJ. Have you heard from her? She’s not answering.”

_“No buddy. No, I haven’t.”_

“Shit. Shit. SHIT.”

_“Hey, hey, Peter, buddy. I’m sure she’s okay.”_

But his gut is telling him something else.

That this has something to do with what had her rushing out of his apartment this morning.

_“Peter, you still there?”_

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

_“Okay, look. I’m sure she’s fine. You go around her apartment and see if she’s there. And I’ll keep trying her phone in the mean time . . .”_

He nods into the phone even though he knows Ned can’t see him.

_“She’ll be fine, Peter,”_ his best friend tries to reassure him.

But he can’t shake the feeling he’s already too late.

 

)(

 

MJ knows she’s either being alarmingly stupid, or ridiculously brave.

Maybe it’s both.

Harry’s clearly expecting her if the ease with which she makes it through the gates and up to the front doors of the Osborn Mansion is anything to go by.

They open with the lightest of pushes, and MJ’s seen a fair few horror movies to know it’s a foreboding sign. The difference between her and every on-screen protagonist being _she’s prepared_ – she knows _exactly_ what she’s walking into.

The house is just how she remembers it from all those dinner parties back when they’d been together.

Everything about it is grand and expensive but it leaves her feeling only cold and lifeless.

It’s a mausoleum.

“You know,” a sharp voice rings out, echoing against the walls and high ceiling, “I don’t remember replying to your text and yet here you are anyway?”

And there he is.

Fitted suit and tie, standing in the middle of his grand, spiral staircase, towering above her, just like the dramatic psychopath he is.

She steadies her voice and folds her arms across her chest to hide away her shaking hands. “And funny how I find you here and not at your apartment? Almost as if you were expecting me to come _here_ of all places?”

He chuckles, takes one step, then another, down towards her. “Figured it out, did you? You always were a smart one MJ. Too smart for your own good. And well, Jameson could never claim to be anything but hot-headed and too emotional for his own good. _Not so smart,_ that man.”

And _oh,_ she thinks, _I wouldn’t be too sure about that._

Because as much as the dislike between Jameson and her is mutual, the man is smarter than she’d ever given him credit for.

Which makes her think of Ned.

And God, she hopes with everything she has that he got her message.

The countless worried text and voice messages from both Peter and Ned had eaten her up with the guilt, but she had to trust them and herself.

Trust that this was going to work.

“So, what did you threaten Jameson with this time to make him record that message?” she asks because she genuinely wants to know.

But Harry, the bastard, simply opts to smirk and doesn’t answer.

“I have to admit,” he says instead, now at the bottom step, “I’m disappointed in Peter. I was hoping he’d come along with you. Two birds. One stone. I was happy to deal with this quietly, but if it’s a big spectacle of a show he wants? I’m happy to give it to him . . .”

He now steps up in front of her, dress shoes loud on the cold marble flooring, and she tries not to flinch away when he holds her gaze with those soulless eyes.

“Oh and it was all lies you do realise? If you’re looking for ‘proof’,” he chuckles at that, “you won’t find it here. Truth be told, I’m surprised you fell for it, MJ. Maybe I give you too much credit.”

_Or maybe not enough._

“I already have all the proof I need,” she retorts with the type of eerie calm that causes a crack in his armour. There’s a little hesitation there now as he eyes her.

“If that’s true, why are you here?”

She doesn’t answer him.

And he takes that to mean she’s nothing but hot air and bluster. And just like that, the overconfidence is back as he simply sneers down at her. He’s close enough now that she feels his hot breath on her face, but MJ holds her ground.

_“Come then, my love,”_ he whispers, and she really should have been paying attention instead of being pulled in by his bullshit, because she doesn’t notice the syringe. Doesn’t have time to react. Not until he plunges it into her neck and by then it’s too late as the world fades, alarmingly fast, to black.

_“Let’s go catch ourselves a spider . . .”_

 

)(

 

Peter tries her apartment first.

Knocks several times to no answer. It’s empty. Neither MJ or Liz are at home by the time he gets there after leaving the hospital in a panicked rush.

He tries her phone again and gets her voicemail once more.

His gut screams at him that she’s gone and done what Ned had made them promise they wouldn’t do last night.

She’s gone after Harry.

He resolves to head towards the Osborn Mansion next when his phone pings with the notification of an incoming message right as he steps into the stairwell of MJ’s apartment building.

It’s from Ned.

**GET TO NY PULSE NOW.**

He doesn’t need to be told twice as he changes direction and starts heading up instead of down. Sure, it’s a little reckless, but he doesn’t have time to think as he runs along rooftops, jumping the gaps between buildings with practiced ease and with the occasional help of his web-slingers. The rest of his suit and mask are still in the backpack he retrieved on his way here – he had a feeling he’d be needing it.

When he gets to the Goodman Building in double quick time, Ned’s already pacing the sidewalk outside its front doors.

“Dude! You’re here!”

“What’s going on? Where’s MJ? What’s happening?”

Ned takes a second to breathe in – breathless either from running or the excitement of whatever he’s about to tell him. Peter can’t tell, and is fast losing grip of his usual patience, because _damn it! Where is she?_

“She was here.”

“Was? What do you mean ‘was’?”

“I got a text from her –”

“Why didn’t you tell me –”

“– Peter, let me finish. This is _huge._ She figured it out. Jameson’s message.”

“What?” he asks, uncomprehending. He really could care less about that stupid message right now.

Ned offers his hand out, palm up.

He doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

“It’s a thumb drive . . .”

“Okay . . .”

“Proof,” Ned says with wide, excited eyes. “It’s the proof Jameson was talking about. It’s a recorded confession from Harry about Norman’s murder. Jameson had it all this time, hidden away –”

And then it hits him.

“The filing cabinet.”

Ned nods vigorously.

And yes, it’s a big deal. A huge deal. But Peter can’t think about that right now.

“What else did she say in her text?”

“Just told me she left something in my drawer, and I needed to get hold of it straightaway. Make copies. And take the original to the nearest NYPD precinct when she sends me a sign.”

“Sends you a sign?” Peter shakes his head, frustration peaking to near eruption point. “Damn it,” he curses. “She’s gone after Harry! She’s gone after Harry all by herself!”

Ned shakes her head. “She wouldn’t. She . . .”

_Absolutely would._

And it’s just as that terrifying thought sinks in that there’s a sudden, huge, thunderous bang in the not too far distance. The whole ground shakes with it, and it falls eerily silent in the aftermath for a long few seconds. And then it starts. The steady, rising sound of building hysteria and screaming.

Peter looks to the skies and sees the thick smoke darkening the Manhattan skyline.

He breathes out. “I think that may have been your sign, Ned.”

“Holy shit,” Ned swears, looking up at the sky.

Peter grabs hold of him by the shoulder. “Get that to the cops. Now.”

“Where are you –”

“Now Ned. Go!”

“Peter –”

And there’s something in his tone that gives him pause, makes him take that extra precious second to turn back and say, “I’ll be okay. And so will MJ. I’ve got this buddy.”

“You better,” Ned says pulling him into a hug before loosening his grip and letting him go.

Peter doesn’t turn around again, just heads for the nearest alleyway, before emerging once more.

But not as Peter Parker this time.

As Spider-Man.

 

-

 

He arrives to utter chaos and panic in Times Square.

There are hordes of people running in every direction, cars and buildings aflame, the distant wail of emergency services still en route.

He scours the skies for the culprit of the current scenes he’s witnessing but he’s nowhere to be seen, and neither is MJ. He doesn’t have time to think about that though as there’s a sudden scream, and he only has seconds to react to pull a woman out of the way of an upturned yellow cab skidding towards her.

His webbing connects with her milliseconds before it would have impacted and she’s in hysterics in his arms – no amount of _“you’re okay, ma’am. You’re fine,”_ doing the job of calming her down.

And as much as he wants to stay there and help her through it, _he can’t_ , because there are so many people, too many people, in need of help.

And then he hears it. Amongst the gradual murmuring chorus of:

“Over there!”

“Look up there!”

“It’s him!”

He hears it:

_“It’s the Green Goblin!”_

Peter hears the whirr of his hoverboard over the voices first before the demon announces himself.

“We finally meet again Spider-Man! I see you got my message!” He splays his arms wide, gesturing to the destruction all around him.

And it’s strange how everyone seems to fall silent then – victims, bystanders, _everyone_ – watching in horrified fascination at what’s happening in front of their eyes.

Peter climbs up onto the roof of one of the abandoned cars in his path, and now that he’s closer to him, he realises the Green Goblin’s mask doesn’t really cover his eyes. And now that he knows who it is, he can see him.

So clearly.

It’s a wonder he never figured it out sooner.

Harry Osborn as the Green Goblin – the evil by-product of science gone so very wrong.

“Yeah, you’ve got my attention Goblin!” he answers back. “You wanna talk? Okay, get off your board and let’s talk about this.”

“Talk? Who said anything about talking? No, we’re here to have _fun_ , Spider-Man!”

And in a blink, he’s making his point.

_With a grenade._

He throws it seemingly with little care, but Peter can see its trajectory, and it’s heading straight for a cluster of tourists cowering under the scrolling headlines of the ABC Studios. He does the only thing he can: leaps forward to pick up the unhinged door of a wrecked car from the ground, and gets in between the grenade and the group of bystanders, using it as a shield. The blast sets the already torn up metal aflame, the force of the impact causing him to fall back, skidding several metres along the ground.

People scream in alarm, in fear, in horror.

Peter can feel his muscles ache, the back of his legs burning, bruised from the fall and being scraped along the ground with the backward momentum. With a groan he pushes the metal off him as the Green Goblin laughs manically above them.

“You need to stop this,” he says, grimacing in pain, pushing himself to stand on shaky legs.

“Stop this? We’re only getting started!”

“Come on!” he yells. “It’s _me_ you want! Not these people!”

Harry seems to consider this for a moment. And then: “You’re right. You know what’ll stop all this? Simple. All you gotta do is take off your mask and let the whole world see who you are!”

And it’s not at all what he’d been expecting.

He doesn’t understand what Harry stands to gain from him revealing his identity – apart from turning his life, and the lives of the people he loves, upside down.

Peter can feel the panic thrum under his skin.

Because _he can’t._

_He can’t do it._

But _then,_ he can’t let more innocent people get hurt because of him, either.

Because that, Peter realises in that moment, is exactly what Harry’s trying to do.

Trying to turn _him_ into the bad guy, and he can just imagine the _Daily Bugle_ headlines tomorrow morning:

**Hundreds die in carnage as selfish Spider-Man refuses to remove mask!**

**Spider-Man’s true colours revealed!**

**Spider-Man: The Coward.**

And in the end, there’s only one decision to make . . .

“How do I know I have your word?”

“You don’t.”

And he’s cornered with nowhere to go, and he knows it and Harry knows it.

His life is never gonna be the same again.

With a deep breath in and out, he slowly reaches up, edge of his mask rolling up with fingertips, exposing his chin . . .

_“No! Stop!”_

Peter freezes.

A young woman steps up in front of him, completely out of nowhere.

She’s shaking like a leaf, but her back is ramrod straight, chin raised defiantly, bravely, as she glares up at the Green Goblin.

“He doesn’t have to show us who he is! We _know_ who he is! He’s Spider-Man. He’s this city’s hero and we stand by him!”

Her voice is steady, firm in its conviction and it reverberates around the evening air.

And then it happens. A steady rise of voices, a cacophony of sound, adding their support, all saying the same, all rallying behind him, chanting his name – _“Spider-Man! Spider-Man!” –_ and Peter’s heart has never felt so full.

Never like this.

They stand in front of him, one by one, a shield of nothing but the most awe-inspiring display of humanity.

The Green Goblin sneers down at the gathering crowd, laughing bitterly. “A hero, huh? You think he’s gonna save you? You think he’s gonna choose _you_ over _that_ woman up there?”

And it’s funny how things can turn on a dime.

The euphoria of this monumental moment dies a quick death as Peter’s blood runs cold.

Turns to ice in his veins.

Because _he knows._

_He knows who it is._

And he doesn’t want to look up, but he has no choice as all the heads around him do the same – like sunflowers lifting their faces towards the sun.

His sun.

MJ.

_“Well let’s find out then, shall we . . ?”_

 

)(

 

When MJ comes around, she thinks it must be the after-effects of the sedative Harry had injected her with, because all she can see is the swirl of darkening blue and wisps of grey, and she can’t focus her eyes.

But then she smells it.

The distinct smell of fire and smoke, and the taste of fear in the air.

All the way up here.

Because that’s the next thing she realises as she opens her eyes and struggles to a sitting position. Her fingers grasp at her ground – excepts it’s not, there’s metal grating scraping under her fingernails and it’s not the ground at all. Not with the way it sways under her, creaks with the wind. She takes in a deep breath, grasps hold of the railing to push herself to stand and that’s when it dawns on her just what she’s standing on and where. A powered davit carriage hanging on the side of one of New York’s high-rise buildings, a thousand feet up in the sky, the lights and chaos of Times Square a blink in the distance down below.

When she’d been hoping to bring the Green Goblin out into the open, and expose him, this hadn’t been what she’d had in mind.

Still, _it’s okay_ , she tells herself.

At least she’s not hanging by her fingertips to a window ledge.

There’s something (semi-) sturdy under her feet. She’ll be fine so long as she doesn’t look down. And Peter’s there somewhere, she knows. The cops will be on their way, and soon they’ll . . .

Her thoughts trail away as she looks up and sees it.

The flashing red, the numbers counting down, and she doesn’t even have time to panic because it hits zero before she can process what it is she’s looking at.

She doesn’t hear the explosion, doesn’t hear the snap of the pulley holding the carriage up, or the screech of metal and shatter of glass that follows. She definitely doesn’t hear the scream torn from her lungs as gravity exerts its awesome, all-powerful force, and she _starts to fall . . ._

 

)(

 

It’s a strange sort of silence that follows the two separate explosions.

The silence of being frozen still and not knowing what to do.

But then the screams come into focus, and he hears the crying and the terrified shouts of “HELP! HELP US PLEASE!” register in his mind, and he remembers who he is.

And what he stands for.

He’s Spider-Man, and Harry Osborn can never take that away from him with his ultimatums and impossible odds.

The massive billboard above them breaks into shards with the explosion, but it’s the largest piece of it, heading straight for him and the hundreds of people who had stood in a protective barrier in front of him, that draws his immediate attention.

He doesn’t think, leaps forward, and exerts all his strength through his arms, his shoulders to hold it up. It creaks ominously, edge screeching on the ground once it hits, and then he hears the yelling;

“We got this Spider-Man! Go save the girl!”

He looks over his shoulders at the hundreds of people helping to hold it up, the children being shepherded away, and the flash of neon in the corner of his eyes as the fire service arrives and comes to their aid.

“Go man! Go!” Another man says, and he doesn’t need to be told again as he slips out from under the rubble and takes a running leap to swing himself up into the air.

And he can see her.

A dot in the distance, coming into focus with every swing he takes, and his heart is lodged in his throat. Because he can see it now – her fingers losing grip of the metal grating of the carriage she’s clinging to.

“Hold on!” he screams. “I’m coming!”

But gravity is winning this battle as her fingers slip and he wishes, for all the world, that he had more time.

That _they_ had more time.

Because, right then, _she lets go._

And she’s freefalling.

And his lungs burn, her name ripped from his chest as he throws out desperate web after web, and _he screams._

“MJ! NO!”

 

)(

 

The explosive device doesn’t go off exactly as Harry had planned.

MJ knows this because she’s definitely not a mangled splat of blood and guts on the ground, in the middle of Times Square.

She’s still breathing, although whether that’s true is questionable.

Because the detonation has left the carriage hanging there by a single wire, and the platform she’d been standing on is now vertical instead of horizontal, and as she’d slipped down with gravity, desperate searching fingertips had managed to find the edge, leaving her hanging there mid-air.

Just like in her worst nightmare.

So _not dead._

_Just nearly._

Its pure agony running through her arms, her wrists, her fingers as she tries to stop herself from falling to certain death.

But she knows if she can just hang on, _he’ll_ be here.

Because she can hear him.

Can hear the thwip of his webbing, and the desperate pleas for her to hold on. _Just hold on._

And she tries.

Tries with everything she has.

Tears stream from her eyes with the fear, the exertion, the sheer will power _to live._

But she can’t.

She can’t any longer.

Her arms scream at her, the tips of her fingers slipping millimetres, until there’s nothing there.

_“I’m sorry,”_ she gasps with her last breath, and then it’s nothing but the wind rushing in her ears as she falls, falls, falls . . .

Until.

_Slam!_

She can’t comprehend it, because in her head she’s still falling, she’s still dying, except now there’s a firm body pressed against hers, arms clutching her in a vice grip, and she still can’t breathe.

But she can hear him.

Repeating the same words.

Over and over.

And they’re for him just as much as they are for her.

_“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.”_

And she squeezes her eyes tight and buries her head in his neck, and clings just as tightly, doesn’t let her lungs fill until her feet hit solid ground.

She doesn’t even let go then, eyes staying screwed shut, violent tremors running through her and he’s the only thing holding her up.

She doesn’t have time to appreciate the feeling, to say ‘thank you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ _‘I love you . . .’_

No, because there’s no such thing as respite.

No such thing as luck.

And certainly not happiness.

Not for her.

The bellowing “SPIDER-MAN! LOOK OUT!” doesn’t compute.

And, of course, he reacts faster than her. She doesn’t even have time to protest as he pushes her off him, and she falls somewhere off to the side. It all happens too fast to make sense of it, but all she knows is that the Green Goblin lets out this terrible, animalistic _roar_ right then, before launching himself at Peter in one last, enraged and envy-fuelled, kamikaze attack.

The both of them are thrown off into the distance and all they are is an incomprehensible blur of red, blue and green.

The wailing sirens reach a crescendo as more police cars arrive onto the scene, pulling people aside, and out of the way of the wreckage, but MJ’s not watching them, or the (somehow still operating) screens coming alive around them with scrolling headlines:

**Breaking News: New Evidence Emerges - Harry Osborn Guilty of Murdering Own Father. Suspected to be Green Goblin. Chaos in Times Square.**

Not that Harry is there to bear witness to his downfall.

Because at that moment another explosion lights up the New York sky and the Green Goblin comes hurtling into the side of the Paramount Building. The force of the impact causes his board to short-circuit and he’s spasming pitifully on the ground as the police surround him.

And Peter . . .

There’s no sign of him

She searches desperately for any glimpse of that familiar red and blue.

And then she sees it: the gathering crowd, the shocked, horror-filled murmurs, the gasping, the hands covering mouths and looking away as if they can’t bear to watch, and _she knows._

“Where is he?! WHERE IS HE?!” A familiar voice panics in her ear, and she vaguely registers it as Ned, arriving onto the scene with the influx of cops, as she runs towards the crowd in answer.

Ned follows close at her heels and the both of them push their way through the throngs of gathering people. “Excuse me, excuse me, move please, MOVE!”

And the sea parts.

And everything comes to a stand-still.

Everything else ceases to exist as she drops to her knees beside the figure lying on the ground.

Because there he is.

Spider-Man.

_And he’s not breathing._

 

))((

 


	12. August 2028; Issue No. 112

 

                                            

 

It’s always the same.

The silent scream, the absence of sound, not even the whistle of air, as time stills to nothing as she falls.

Slipping through fingers too late.

_Too late._

Lifeless eyes, open, staring sightlessly.

Chest unmoving and still.

_So still._

She’s not breathing.

And neither is he.

He doesn’t know how to.

_Not anymore._

 

)(

 

_“No. No, no, no. Come on.  Come on. Wake up. Wake up! Don’t do this. Don’t . . don’t . . ._

_“I love you. I love you . . . please . . .”_

I love you.

 

MJ wakes with her heart pounding to the rhythm of three words left unsaid.

She’s hit instantly with the unnerving disorientation of not knowing where she is. It lasts only a few seconds as her eyes open to the dimly lit room and the quiet murmur of voices on the flickering TV screen, and she remembers then that she’s in her own living room and not in the middle of Times Square.

She’s _safe._

She pulls herself up to a sitting position and stares blankly ahead; the remnants of her nightmare lingering on at the back of her mind.

It’s always the same.

A crowd of weeping strangers united in their grief, and she thinks bitterly _you can’t know how this feels. You can’t._ Because he’s not breathing. And there’s only the sound of manic laughter as the Green Goblin circles above, and cries of anguish soon turn to cries of terror as fire starts to rain down on them . . .

She shudders, shaking the image away. Drawing her feet onto the couch, MJ bends her knees and hugs them to her chest.

The day’s main news headline remains unchanged as she watches it scroll across the bottom of the screen.

**Harry Osborn Pleads Guilty**

She doesn’t know how she feels about that. Not sure she cares, either.

Groaning into her hands, MJ blinks away the afterimage of Spider-Man lying unmoving, not breathing, on the ground. It feels like it’s been burned onto her retinas, and it doesn’t matter how hard she squeezes her eyes, it won’t go. It’s just like the ache in her chest that she rubs at absent-mindedly.

That won’t go either.

Not since that night.

“Hey,” a familiar voice wades into the silence, giving her the desperate foothold she needs to stop herself from sliding back into that deep, dark hole. “What are you doing out here? I thought you went to bed ages ago?”

MJ doesn’t turn around as she listens to the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, before Liz makes her way over to her curled up on the couch.

She’s in a pair of sleeping shorts and a tank top and has a cold bottle of water pressed up against her neck. The August heat is damn near unbearable, but MJ can’t feel it.

She can’t feel much of anything.

Liz settles on the seat beside her – a tentative hand resting on her shoulder and squeezing as she does.

“MJ?” she calls softly.

She continues to stare at the screen as they replay the video of Harry being walked out of the courthouse earlier in the day with the swarms of journalists surrounding him, and the flash of cameras all around, bright enough to blind. She’s sure the _Daily Bugle_ are somewhere in the crowd there; wonders too if Harrington sent anyone from _NY Pulse._

There’s a small click and the screen turns black as Liz switches it off, replacing the murmuring voices with the hum of static and silence filled only with a worried sigh.

“You’ve got to forgive yourself,” Liz says.

And for one confused moment, MJ tries to remember if she told her _everything_ in the aftermath. If she spilled secrets that weren’t hers to tell in her despair.

But as Liz continues, she realises that no. No, she hadn’t.

“You didn’t know he was the Green Goblin, okay?”

Except, of course, _she had_. But she knows what Liz is trying to say.

Harry’s actions are not on her, his obsession with her is not her burden; and yet, she can’t help but feel it is.

Maybe, he’d had it right the first time.

It _is_ her fault.

“Have you heard from him?” Liz asks then.

“From who?”

“Peter.”

And she remembers too, the morning after, the morning before, and the giddy feeling that had burst from her as she’d sat in this exact spot and spilled the beans to her best friend about the man who had somehow become her everything.

It seems so long ago now.

MJ takes a breath in and slowly exhales with a lie.

“No.”

 

)(

 

“Peter. Peter, sweetheart, wake up. It’s just a dream, it’s not real . . .”

His lungs are still burning from the screaming, gasping as he struggles for air.

“Breathe, Peter. Just breathe,” a voice says, clutching his fisted, white-knuckled hand in one of her own, the other, brushing his hair back in an effort to comfort.

And it feels like he’s six years old again.

Woken up by nightmares of his parents’ accident and the soothing voice of Aunt May cracking under the weight of her own grief.

He blinks his eyes open – wet with tears – and she’s right there. Sitting beside him.

The lamp on the wall is switched on, and it casts a soft glow about the room. It takes him longer than it should to get his bearings, but he can’t be blamed. Not least from the haze of the nightmare that still plagues him but also because this is not his bedroom.

Well, _it is._

For the foreseeable future.

Until Aunt May’s fully recovered, or the reconstruction of her home in Forest Hills, his childhood home, is complete – whichever it is that comes first. Of course, the insurance companies dragged their feet in starting the rebuild, but a little push and pulling of strings by one Tony Stark, was enough to light their asses on fire and get them moving.

And this apartment in Queens that they’ve temporarily moved into – only last week following Aunt May’s hospital discharge – is courtesy of him, too.

He’d initially offered an Upper East Side penthouse, to which Peter had balked, and then very politely declined with an “uh no thank you, Mr Stark. Queens is fine. Is perfect, actually.”

Tony had raised a sceptical brow, but in the end had shrugged it off with a “fine. Whatever you want, kid.”

It’s just yet another thing Peter has to thank the man for.

As well as, you know, the little thing of _saving his life_ . . .

But that thought will lead him down the path that winds its way back into the maze of his nightmares and he’s only just found the exit.

And so, he pushes it aside and lets out a shuddering breath instead, meeting her worried gaze as he does.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh sweetheart,” she breathes out, and she sounds so close to tears, it only adds to the guilt that has his chest in a vice grip.

And he feels like he’s there all over again and he can’t breathe.

At all.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she finishes with the kind of conviction that invites no argument.

He pushes himself up to sit and lets his eyes flicker over his aunt’s face, taking note of the sunken eyes and dark circles. She looks tired. As if the progress she’d made in her recovery has taken several steps back with the stress and worry his injuries have caused. Her hair is wrapped up in a silk scarf, hiding away the shorn hair where the surgeons had to burr a hole to alleviate the pressure from the initial bleed she’d suffered all those weeks ago. It’s just another reminder of what the Green Goblin’s nearly cost him.

“I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you,” he says on a shaky exhale.

She replies with a soft smile. “We take care of each other, remember?”

He manages a nod, and still feels so much like a kid, especially when Aunt May pulls him into her and hugs him tight.

“Have you spoken to her?” she asks quietly.

The _her_ doesn’t need saying. Not when he woke up screaming her name.

“She’s not answering any of my calls or texts.”

Aunt May’s grip tightens. “I don’t think it means what you think it means, Peter.”

Peter sighs and pushes himself away. Aunt May’s hands drop to her lap.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, from what you told me happened, and from what I know of MJ, the poor girl probably thinks she’s to blame for everything –”

“That’s –” he starts to say with a shake of his head.

“– ridiculous?” Aunt May suggests, though from her tone it’s more statement of fact than suggestion. “Mmm, _exactly.”_

“What? What’s that face for?”

“Oh this face? This is the face that knows you. Knows that some part of _you_ feels responsible for everything that’s happened, too. That somehow you should have been able to stop what happened to _me,_ to _MJ,_ but Peter . . . your powers, your abilities, they don’t make you . . . they don’t make you invincible, either . . .” She stops, voice wobbling as she forces out her next words. _“You nearly died.”_

And he feels like he’s been sucker-punched.

Because in the last few weeks since the Times Square show down, since he very nearly lost MJ, since _he_ very nearly died had it not been for the emergency failsafe Tony Stark had built into the upgrade of his suit, they’ve not really spoken about what happened.

He hasn’t even spoken to Ned about it.

Not in any great detail.

And he’s still not sure he’s ready, which is why he gives her a shrug and a teasing smile and tries to make light of it.

“I guess that makes us even then?”

Aunt May lets out this horrified sort of half-sob, half-laugh as she raises a finger to scold him. “ _Peter Benjamin Parker_ , don’t you dare! _That_. . . that’s not . . .”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, because this time Peter pulls her into a hug and whispers, _“I’m sorry.”_

And means it in every way he possibly can.

)(

 

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Jones,” Harrington remarks as she slouches past him into _NY Pulse_ half an hour late the following morning.

Her punctuality’s gone to shit these last few weeks.

Ned would say something ridiculous about her subconsciously emulating Peter in his absence because she misses him. And then would add that she should stop being a stubborn idiot and just pick up her damn cell phone already so the universe can correct itself. And to that she would simply stick up her middle finger and wordlessly collapse into her chair.

It doesn’t happen like that.

Not this time, anyway.

Instead, Ned shakes his head at her as she drops into her seat and Harrington disappears once more into his office.

MJ boots up her computer and can feel Ned’s eyes on her – telepathically trying to communicate with her and get her to turn around.

But she can’t.

Because she doesn’t need the reminder – the déjà vu of seeing Peter’s empty desk once more.

She waits for Ned to start talking, like he always does, regardless of her listening or not.

(She does listen. Always listens.)

But this time, he says nothing.

Just sighs – deep, heavy and disappointed.

And it burns.

Just the way her phone burns inside the pocket of her jeans in reminder of the message she’d received at 3am.

Lying awake in bed, sleep evading her, the notification sound of the incoming message had been loud enough to filter through the thump of her heartbeat drumming in her ears, and she’d been unable to resist its lure.

Four words had stared back at her against the brightly lit background of the screen.

**It’s not your fault.**

And for the first time, in as long as she can remember, she’d curled up against her pillow and allowed herself to cry.

She clears her throat, still scratchy and hoarse from the early hours of the morning and shakes away the memory. A double click on the email icon opens up her inbox to over a hundred unread messages and she starts the tedious task of sorting through them.

She’s only ten down when a shadow is cast over her and she feels the presence of someone behind her.

She tilts her head back.

“Eugene.”

He grimaces. “Michelle.”

She straightens up again as Flash rounds her chair and presses back against her desk.

“What do you want?” she asks.

She can _hear_ him roll his eyes, before he shoves an envelope under her nose.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a card. For Parker. From the team.”

“And you’re giving it to me why?”

And MJ thinks she probably should have thought that knee-jerk reaction of a response through before she’d opened her mouth. But she supposes that’s why it’s called a reflex. No thinking involved.

“Um because a) he’s all the way in Washington in some recovery facility that I’ve never heard of – but apparently does exist – because I checked –”

“Aww, who knew you took fact-checking so seriously, Eugene? Good for you.”

He ignores her and continues, “– and b) you’re his girlfriend.”

_Right._

_That._

The whole _NY Pulse_ team had been fed the same threadbare lie that Peter had been caught up in the Times Square chaos and had been injured pretty badly, thus needed to be transferred to some specialist hospital in D.C.

The truth of course being, Tony Stark had pulled some strings to get Spider-Man airlifted out of New York City to get him help from his own doctors away from the prying eyes of the media.

Turns out Spider-Man’s throwaway line about Tony Stark that one time, hadn’t been so much of a throwaway as she’d thought. She really should have asked him about it sooner. Preferably before all this shit had gone down, and she’d had to fight Stark’s every security measure just for the chance to see him.

In the end, it was May who had vouched for her.

She wipes her mind of the image of him lying unconscious in that hospital bed – the last time she’d seen him – and clears her throat.

“Right, yeah. Fine, I’ll get it to him.”

Flash nods, handing it over, before straightening up to leave her be.

She’s not sure he hears her quiet, murmured, “thanks,” as he goes.

MJ continues to sit there, for a long while after he’s gone, turning the envelope over in her hands. Eventually she gives in to the pull of Ned’s laser focussed gaze which she knows hasn’t faltered once since she arrived.

He’s smiling at her.

Soft, cautious, and _hopeful._

She takes a deep breath, stuffs the card into her bag and returns to her emails.

 

)(

 

It’s the first time Peter’s ventured outside, alone, since his battle with the Green Goblin.

The recovery has been slower than what he’s been used to.

The bruises and cuts have faded. His punctured lung all healed up.

But it still aches.

And part of him thinks it’s all just in his head.

The physical manifestation of a different kind of hurt altogether, but something he never gives himself a chance to dwell on.

It’s yet another hot, humid day in the city. The sun is bright, beaming at full strength down on them. And everywhere he looks, there are people out, soaking up the UV rays. The only people enjoying the heat, being the ones who have the luxury of time to do so.

He turns the corner of the street he’s on, and nearly runs into a kid running in the opposite direction. He stumbles to the side, brushing up against the weathered wrought iron railings of the building beside him, as the boy makes a run for it across the road.

The words “hey buddy, be careful!” never manage to fall off the tip of his tongue as another young boy, not more than seven or eight, runs past him just then, giving chase. It’s the mask he recognises, the familiar red and blue, and as he listens, he hears the unmistakeable shouts of “Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!” as he gains on his friend – well, (pretend) foe.

The sight of it makes something heavy lump at the back of his throat.

He misses being out there – being this city’s friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. And by the looks of all those letters up on _NY Pulse’s_ website, the city misses him just as much.

But Tony’s doctors had told him to take his time getting back to full strength; and it would be pretty damn stupid, and selfish, of him to ignore their advice. Especially after everything they’d done for him.

And so, he swallows it down, ignores the wail of sirens in the distance, tells himself it’s not forever and keeps walking.

It’s another ten minutes before his destination comes into view.

Peter remembers the last time he’d been here – surprising MJ at her bedroom window, the way she’d clung to him as he’d swung them through the night sky, and she’d shrieked in his ears as he’d swooped high and low. The way the words _“I hate you”_ had fallen from her lips once they were back on solid ground, and it hadn’t felt like an “I hate you” at all.

It’s a reminder that his heart is still bursting with the three words that neither of them have uttered.

But he knows her.

Knows he loves her.

And knows she loves him.

And the only thing that makes MJ run is the fear of hurting the people she loves.

And he gets it.

Just how much she’s been blaming herself, if her self-exile and avoidance is anything to go by. He’s just as much an idiot for not realising it sooner. Not until Aunt May had had to practically spell it out for him.

It’s nearing 6pm when he climbs the steps to the front of her apartment building. Peter pulls out his cell phone and double checks the messages from Ned.

 **She’s leaving now** is the last read text, sent not half an hour ago. And if he’s right, and she’s heading straight home without any detours, she should be here within the next twenty minutes or so.

He pockets his phone, sits down on the top step, _and waits._

 

)(

 

MJ turns the envelope over and over in her hand.

So engrossed is she in her thoughts, she almost misses her stop. Sticking the card back into her bag, and with a deep breath, she steps off the train and makes her way out of the station.

She’s thought about making this journey countless times before but always stopped herself at the last moment, succumbing to crippling fear and belligerent guilt.

The address has been there, in the middle of all the texts he’s sent her since he recovered consciousness, and she’s read over it so many times she has it memorised.

She knows Aunt May will be there, too. But she’s not really thought this through beyond the point of the fact she needs to see him.

It’s gone on long enough – her cowardice.

She’s never thought of herself as a coward before, but that’s what she’s become in the last few weeks.

Running.

Always running.

Well, not any more.

Peter deserves better.

Her destination comes into view as she turns the corner and her first thought is that Stark’s put them up in a pretty nice apartment block which is very decent of him. She’s never been the man’s biggest fan, but for what he did for Peter? She thinks she’ll be forever indebted to him. It makes her wonder, though, just how Spider-Man had come to be on Iron Man’s radar, and how the relationship had evolved to the point where he would do _so much_ for Peter without blinking.

But then that’s easily answered.

_He’s Peter Parker._

_Who wouldn’t?_

Her heart rate picks up at the thought of him, the thought of seeing him again, as she steps up to the building. She notes the double doors, security camera high in the corner, and when she presses on the intercom, it connects immediately.

“Hello?” comes the familiar voice of May.

“Hi, um hello, Mrs Parker. It’s uh –”

“MJ! Sweetheart! Come on up!” There’s a small buzz and a click that follows as the door unlocks and MJ takes a breath and pushes it open.

Peter’s aunt is waiting at the door of their apartment when she reaches the third floor and the smile she gifts her is wide and genuine, and MJ has never felt so undeserving.

May hugs her and she stiffly returns it, before following her inside.

She’s led over to the living area and offered a seat, but for some reason feels frozen in place. Her knee presses into the edge of the coffee table as she stands there like an idiot, wringing her hands, before realising what she’s doing and promptly sticking them into the pockets of her jeans.

She thinks that’s amusement that flickers across May’s face, but she says nothing as she takes her own seat.

“You look better,” MJ finally manages to say.

“Thank you, I _feel_ better,” May smiles. And then: “Better than you or Peter, that’s for sure.”

At that her head jerks and MJ notices the way the gentle smile on May’s face isn’t one of teasing but of concern. She sighs heavily and leans forward in her seat. “He’s not here.”

“Oh,” MJ breathes out. She’d been starting to suspect that was the case. It was either that or he was hiding from her, and she couldn’t really blame him if he had been – not with the way she’s gone and fucking ghosted him after being the one who walked him straight into the devil’s trap that got him critically injured.

“MJ, he’s not here,” she says again, because sometimes Peter’s aunt can also _read minds_. “I believe,” she continues, settling back again, “he’s gone looking for you.”

“Oh,” she says once more, dumbly. _“Oh shit.”_

And this time that is definitely amusement twinkling from May’s eyes. “I figured you weren’t here to see me . . .”

She wants to refute it, because she had _wanted_ to come and check up on her _but . . ._

“I’m sorry. I should um . . . I should . . .”

“Go on,” she says softly, nodding her head in the direction of the door, _“go.”_

MJ doesn’t need to be told twice.

She thinks that’s an amused, fond sigh she hears as the door closes behind her, but she’s not really thinking about that.

She’s thinking about Peter.

How the dumbass is probably sitting there on the steps of her apartment building looking like a kicked puppy, and it doesn’t matter what he says, _that_ is _absolutely_ her fault.

But, of course, the minute she wants to get anywhere in a hurry, that’s the moment New York’s public transit system decides to laugh in her face. The big, fat, howling guffaws of Murphy’s law. Granted, it does that most days, but ugh, _now?_

 _Did the signal on the line have to fail_ now?

By the time she gets home – frustrated and out-of-breath – it’s 7.30pm and as she approaches her building, all that anticipation that had been building up at the thought of seeing him is gutted in one swift blow.

The steps are empty.

_He’s not here._

He must have got fed up of waiting for her worthless ass and gone home.

She lets out a slow breath, her heart curling up on itself with the disappointment. The unopened envelope sitting in her bag feels ten times heavier than it did earlier, but that may just be the weight of her limbs being dragged along with her as she enters the building and climbs the stairs.

She fumbles with the keys at the door, and doesn’t look up until she’s inside, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it.

_“Hey.”_

Her keys land with a rattling clunk on the floor.

Because, of course.

_There he is._

Sitting on the couch with a hand raised in stilted greeting. Alive. Breathing.

She hears the clearing of a throat and it takes her a second to realise it’s not Peter because he’s just as frozen as she is. She turns her head and sees Liz sitting in her armchair, smirk on her lips and eyebrows raised at the ridiculous display of what amounts to mortifying _pre-pubescent angst_ in front of her.

When neither she or Peter make any attempts to speak or move, Liz pushes herself to stand with a shake of her head, and not so subtly says aloud, “I’ll just leave you two to it.” And then proceeds to walk past her, lowering her voice to whisper in her ear as she does, “he’s a good one, MJ.” The unspoken _don’t screw this up_ rings in her ears.

Just as Liz reaches the door, she bends to swipe MJ’s keys from the ground and hands them back. “Nice to meet you, Peter,” she says finally, giving MJ a little shove forward. Peter returns the sentiment with a “you too,” and a wave.

And then the door shuts behind her, leaving the two of them alone, for the first time in what feels like forever.

And MJ feels like she’s right there all over again.

Sitting by his bedside.

Hoping, praying, pleading for him to wake up.

And now that he is, it’s funny how there still aren’t enough words in the world to tell him how she feels.

For now, though, she settles for just the one.

_“Hey.”_

 

)(

 

 _“Hey,”_ MJ finally breathes out, and Peter feels that one word squeeze around his heart – god, he’s missed her.

So much.

“Hey,” he says again.

“Liz is nice,” he continues after it becomes clear MJ’s not gonna say anything else, or even move for that matter. “She uh, let me in while I was waiting –”

“Yeah,” she nods, before taking a step into her apartment, dropping her bag and placing her keys on one of the shelves beside her. “I figured . . . I uh actually just came from yours –”

And it takes a second for that to sink in.

“You went to see me?”

“And you came to see me.”

“Sorry,” he says, instinctively apologising for the mix-up and wasted journey and time. He misses the way she flinches at the word but sees the wariness that’s weighing her down clear enough. She looks drawn and tired and he knows how that feels.

“Why?” he asks, suddenly. The one word flying out of his mouth. And there are so many _whys_ he could choose from, _so many_ , but he opts for the first one he can grip hold of. “Why were you looking for me?”

MJ looks back at him and her expression has never been so open, and it throws him for a loop.

And just like that, he knows _exactly_ why, and heads her off at the pass.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He’s said it before, but of course, she doesn’t believe it. It’s written all over her face – _the guilt._

She shakes her head, a huff of air leaving her lips and it almost sounds like laughter. “Yeah, Peter. It was.”

“MJ –”

“No, Peter. _No._ I was a freakin’ idiot thinking I could take Harry on on my own and that I could somehow protect you from him. I should have told you that morning what I’d figured out instead of trying to be a goddamn hero.”

That morning seems so long ago now.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You should have told us.”

She inhales sharply and looks away at his blunt agreement.

But Peter’s not finished.

“I’m not gonna argue with you there . . .” he watches as she folds her arms across her chest, closing herself off again, but still he continues, “but . . . _but_ I know we would have ended up in exactly the same place, MJ. Harry wasn’t gonna stop and I had a target on my back the moment I fell in love with you whether you tried to stop it or not. The only person to blame for what happened is Harry Osborn, and he’s in a maximum-security jail cell, facing a life-sentence, _because of you._

 _“You,”_ he breathes out once more as he steps towards her, and he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence because MJ lets out a shuddering breath and fixes her gaze on him.

“I keep seeing you lying there on the ground, not breathing,” she admits softly.

“I keep dreaming that I’m too late, that I let you slip through my fingers, every single time.”

He takes another step closer and he can feel the tension radiating off her – she’s so tightly coiled, one false move and he knows she’ll snap.

But it’s MJ who surprises him one more time. Because it’s her who closes the distance between them, reaching out to slip her hand into his, and it’s with that first tentative touch of her skin against his that he breaks.

He doesn’t think, just acts on pure instinct, pulling her to him and melting against her in a hug that catches in his chest as his lungs fill with nothing but _her._

Her head falls into the crook of his neck and she’s breathing out a hot burst of air and an apology she can no longer keep the pressure seal on. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m right here, I've got you,” he breathes into her curls, tightening his grip on her.

He’s not sure how long they stay there – wrapped around each other, breathing each other in. He’d be content to stay like this forever, but his traitorous stomach decides to remind him he hasn’t eaten in a while, and he’s actually starving.

MJ snorts in amusement and Peter can’t help but laugh too as he kisses the side of her head and pulls away just a fraction to the sight of her smiling down at him.

“Hungry?”

“Apparently.”

“Staying?” she asks then. It’s an echo of that night and he knows she isn’t just talking about dinner.

He answers her with a kiss pressed to her lips and whispers against her skin -

_“I’m staying.”_

 

-

 

They spend the rest of the night making up for lost time. In between the hugging and the kissing, there’s a lot of talking – alternating between the past and the future. MJ struggles with it – and he realises just how much it had shaken her to see him like that and he understands why she’d stayed away. In turn, he finally spills his feelings about what happened that night and the ghosts that have been haunting him since. They talk too about what they think will happen to Harry – the terrifying, unthinkable possibility of him not being locked away and how they would deal with it.

 _Together,_ is the only answer.

They fall asleep curled around each other, and it’s the first time since that night that they sleep undisturbed.

Nightmares chased away by their own personal knights.

He is hers.

And she is his.

 

)(

 

Ned’s reaction to seeing the both of them walking into _NY Pulse_ the following morning, hand in hand, will forever be MJ’s go-to memory for when an instant pick-me-up is needed.

His smile is all beaming white teeth and dancing eyes, alight with the kind of happiness Ned Leeds deserves _for himself._

It’s like Christmas has come early for him.

Which is, of course, a bit of a reach given New York is a sweltering swamp but the sentiment remains the same.

“FINALLY!” Ned whoops, loud and proud, collapsing back in his chair, arms raised to the heavens.

The whole office turns their eyes on them – even Harrington pokes his head out his door at the commotion.

The silence that follows Ned’s exclamation explodes then into a burst of noise as their fellow colleagues surround them, all expressing their relief at seeing Peter back at work, and most of all, healthy. But there’s intrigue too – they wouldn’t be journalists if curiosity didn’t run rampant in their personalities – at what happened that night in Times Square. And although Peter’s physically recovered enough to be back at work, she can sense that this is all a little overwhelming for him by the way he grips her hand.

She’s about to intervene when Harrington steps into the crowd and exerts the kind of authority she never knew him capable of (and it strangely makes her proud). “Alright, alright, let the man breathe. Get back to work people. This magazine is not gonna publish itself.”

The crowd disperses.

Harrington presses a hand to Peter’s shoulder and is genuine as he tells him, “it’s good to have you back, Parker.”

Peter nods his thanks.

“Did you get the card?” Flash asks then. His voice comes from the other side of the room. Still seated, he has his legs propped up on his desk as he leans back in his chair.

Peter scrunches his forehead. “Card? Uh no . . .”

“Oh, my bad,” MJ pipes up then, momentarily disentangling her hand from his – she’s been surprisingly unbothered by their united show of PDA – and rummages through her bag for the now bent envelope Flash had entrusted her with yesterday, and hands it over.

She’d completely forgotten to give it to him last night.

Funny how the weight of it in her bag had vanished the moment she’d seen him. She had planned to lead with the card as the excuse that had brought her to see him, but then Peter had jumped the gun and (impressively) gone right for the heart of the matter.

And well, everything else had just faded to insignificance amongst the hours talking and making out. Although most of that had been making up for lost time, as well as a haze of “oh god you nearly died!”, part of it had also been an attempt to distract him from the collection of notebooks and drawings on her desk which she hadn’t had the foresight to clear away when he’d stepped into her bedroom.

Peter had been only too happy to snoop around, and it didn’t help when she’d not-so discreetly tried to remove those notebooks from clear view.

“I knew it!” he’d said with a wide grin when he’d managed to finagle one of her drawings out of her grasp, “I knew you were sitting there in meetings doodling and . . .”

She remembers the way his voice had drifted off when he’d finally recognised it was a drawing of him.

His “MJ, this is . . . wow!” quickly turned into an “ow!” when she’d launched the basketball (he’d gifted her last Christmas) at his head.

“Ow, okay, fine,” he’d relented putting the drawings down, before reaching for the object she’d struck him with. And then she remembers how the sappy dope had gone all soft at the sight of a freakin’ basketball. “You still have this?”

She’d shrugged. “You still owe me a lesson.”

He’d thrown it back at her then and she’d managed to catch it deftly in both hands. “Doesn’t look like you need it,” he’d teased back.

And that may or may not have been a good time to subtly raise the love confession he’d somehow slipped in earlier in the evening – she still doesn’t even know if he realises just what he’d said – but somehow they’d ended up making out once more, which had been fine by her as she’d been all talked out by then, and the thought had been pushed aside.

Now, MJ forces her mind back to the less pleasant present of Flash grumbling at her. “Jones! Seriously?! You had one job!” He says it like she’s blown some deep cover CIA mission.

“Oh shut it, Eugene,” she snaps. “It’s a bit late for a get well soon card, anyway.”

“Yeah well I only got back the week before, and it was hard getting these tightwads to cough up!”

A chorus of ‘hey!’ and vocal objections start up around the room.

“It’s fine,” Peter says, voice cutting through the din. “Thank you Flash, thank you everyone, I appreciate it. I missed you guys.”

His little speech is received with some good-natured heckling and Peter’s cheeks pinken.

The warmth though from his colleagues is genuine, and she knows Peter’s the only person who could inspire that kind of reaction.

It’s hard to dislike him, and no one knows that better than her.

Because lord knows, she’d tried, and she’d failed miserably at even apathy let alone dislike.

Still, in hindsight, it all feels stupid now.

So much wasted time.

“So,” Ned starts once they’ve settled into their seats, “you two idiots finally got your acts together, huh?”

MJ smirks. “You’re one to talk, Leeds. When exactly were you planning to ask Betty out?”

Ned shakes his head. “Nuh uh, nope. Don’t turn this around on me.”

Peter laughs. “Come on, Ned. Just ask her.”

“You guys are _the_ worst. I think I liked it better when _you_ were ignoring me,” he says spinning and pointing a finger at her, and then back at Peter, “and _you_ were sitting at home pining – _Ned, is she okay? Ned, why won’t she pick up her phone? Ned –”_

 _“Hey!”_ Peter interrupts, and he’s turning an impressive shade of red. “I wasn’t pining.”

“Was too.”

MJ sits back, watches the back and forth with an unabashed grin on her face.

Because, damn, _she’s missed this._

 

)(

 

Things slowly settle back into a pattern of staff meetings, a steady stream of assignments including articles he doesn’t care to write and articles that have him bouncing in excitement to tackle, office banter and friendly rivalries, and of course, Harrington wanting to tear his hair out because of his wayward school of writers and their complete inability to do as they’re told.

Nothing much has changed.

Except, maybe _everything._

Harry’s trial is brought forward, and the word is that he’s considered too much of a danger that even his gambit of a guilty plea is unlikely to reduce his sentence. He’s looking at a long time shut away – all his research and assets have been seized – and it’s the best outcome they could have hoped for. Unnervingly, it doesn’t stop the psychopath from trying to reach out to MJ through his lawyer; but the letter is sent back unopened and with MJ scribbling two words in black marker across the front.

**ENJOY HELL**

She could have opted for a more colourful two words but had shrugged up at Peter’s bemused face with a smirk and had simply said, _“I’m keeping it classy.”_

Aunt May continues to make a good recovery and after another week of living together, she practically pushes him out the door with a roll of her eyes and a no nonsense “I’m fine! Stop worrying about me! And anyway, I don’t want to be _cramping your style_.”

“You’re not cramping my style!” Peter had been genuinely horrified that he could ever make her feel that way, but then Aunt May had shrugged, and said with a terrifying glint in her eyes –

_“Well, you’re cramping mine.”_

And Peter, sensibly, had opted to keep his mouth shut.

Ned’s been working on his courage to ask Betty out, although his and MJ’s incessant needling _doesn’t_ help. In any case, it doesn’t really end up mattering, because it’s Betty who marches up to him on a Wednesday morning, spins his chair around and plants one on him to the whoops and wolf-whistles of everyone around them. Peter commemorates the moment with a bag of stale jelly beans in lieu of confetti, which in hindsight hadn’t been his brightest idea.

But it’s not been all sunshine and smiles.

It’s the last week of August when Bill tells them he’s decided to call it a day and retire.

Although, not a complete shock, and the news comes with a happy sort of sadness, it still hits them hard – MJ especially. She’s grown fond of Bill and his megawatt smiles lighting up the Goodman Building lobby every morning. Still, the man has paid his dues and he deserves to enjoy the rest of his (hopefully many and long) years with his wife, kids and grandkids.

He tells them the news after both he and MJ return from lunch. He’s still got a few weeks left yet, but it all seems a little final. Especially when Bill leaves his post to come around the front desk and hugs them. MJ gets the first and longest hug – he whispers something in her ear which elicits a wet laugh and Peter opts not to make a fuss when he notices her discreetly wipe away her tears. After that, it’s his turn as Bill claps him on the back and makes him promise to “take good care of her, won’t you?”

Peter nods. “Of course.”

But the old man’s not done yet. After pulling away from the hug, he lowers his voice and winks – mischief glinting there – as he says, _“just like you do the rest of this city, eh?”_

At that, Peter’s eyes widen in disbelief, mouth gaping open. But Bill simply straightens his hat and chuckles, “I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Parker,” and says nothing more.

Of course, it makes him wonder, and MJ notices his preoccupation as they make their way back up to the _NY Pulse_ offices.

“What did he say to you?” she asks as he reaches forward to press the button for the twenty-third floor before stepping back to her side.

“Oh um nothing really.”

And he can see the questioning gaze from the corner of his eyes. “Just that he knows.”

“Knows . . .” MJ repeats slowly.

“Yep.”

_“About?”_

“Uh huh. Yep.”

MJ snorts, shaking her head in disbelief. “And there you thought Ned was bad at keeping secrets – at this point the whole world is gonna know you’re –”

Peter reaches out and presses a hand against her mouth muffling the word.

MJ rolls her eyes pulling his hand down by his wrist. “There’s no one here. And those cameras –” she looks to the top left corner, “have no audio.”

“You can never be too careful.”

“Hmm,” MJ hums and there’s a glint in her eyes as she leans forward towards him, and he has a fair idea as to where she’s going with this.

“But I’m pretty sure,” he whispers as she ekes closer, _“they have visual.”_

She laughs and he’s never gonna tire of that sound. She kisses him just as the elevator doors open to their floor and to the sound of someone clearing their throat.

Loudly.

It’s Harrington.

“I was just coming to look for the both of you.”

That in itself is weird. Harrington’s usually never fussed when the both of them turn up after lunch – as evidenced by Peter’s habitual tardiness – just as long as they do.

Taking in his more than usual harangued appearance, Peter asks, “everything okay?”

Harrington shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t quite know, and he’s done trying to know.

“The both of you have a visitor. Conference room.”

For one horrifying moment, he thinks it must be Harry. That he’s somehow managed to evade the police, or worse, they’ve let him out, and he’s here to finish the job he started. And by the way MJ stills beside him, he thinks she’s had the same bone-chilling thought.

But before he can ask Harrington any more about the mystery visitor, the man walks off into the _NY Pulse_ offices, and he and MJ have no choice but to follow.

It’s only once rational thought returns and the glass walls of the conference room come into view that they both realise it definitely isn’t Harry Osborn returning for one last vengeful act.

No, because the large imposing figure standing with his back to them, staring out over the Manhattan skyline, can only be none other than –

_“Mr Jameson?”_

The former Editor-In-Chief of the _Daily Bugle_ and publishing mogul turns around to face them. Unlit cigar clamped between his lips, he raises his eyebrows at the two of them standing in the doorway.

“Parker. Jones. About time. How long does a lunch break take these days? In my days, you ate in your sleep or not at all. But it’s all worker’s rights and blasted unions these days. Sit down.” He barks the order, and Peter slips into one of the chairs as MJ pulls out her own.

He watches as the man leans back against the floor to ceiling windows with his arms folded across his chest and directs an appraising look at the both of them.

Peter shifts uncomfortably; MJ only slumps back in her seat and splays her legs open in what can only be described as _manspreading._ He knows she’s doing it to piss him off and has to bite down on the urge to smile.

But whatever he’s expecting Jameson to say next, it’s certainly not this:

_“Thank you.”_

Peter’s eyes widen, and he thinks even MJ is shocked to her core as she straightens up just like that.

The words obviously taste bitter in the man’s mouth as he glares at them and gruffly says, “I’m not saying it again.”

“No, no we heard you the first time,” MJ says to that.

“Whatever I may or may not be, a reprobate and uncultured swine is not it –”

“Debateable,” MJ mutters under her breath, and Jameson’s on too much of a roll to have heard.

“– I was right to trust my instincts about you Jones. And you, Parker. As much as I was loathe to trust Spider-Man with this, I have to admit –” he stops, clears his throat and looks away, “maybe he’s not as feckless as I’d suggested. And he . . . he did New York a service for which I am appreciative. I uh . . . trust that you can relay that to your friend, Parker?”

Peter clears his own throat. “Yep, sure. Consider it done.”

Jameson nods. “And Jones. Miss Jones. You have my gratitude for putting the pieces of that message together.”

“About that?” MJ says then, and Jameson still looks like there’s something foul in his mouth as he barks;

“What about it?”

“How did you know that I’d understand it?”

“I would have thought fishing for compliments was beneath you, Jones.”

MJ sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jameson peers down at her, says nothing more as he searches for his lighter inside his suit jacket, giving them a brief glimpse of a sweat-soaked armpit.

Nothing but a three-piece suit will do for J. Jonah Jameson even if the world’s on fire.

“I remembered your interest and incessant hunt for my final _Daily Bugle_ edition for the 50th anniversary issue, and trusted you had intellect enough to put the rest of it together.”

“Right,” MJ says, accepting his explanation even if it is delivered with such obvious disdain.

“How long did you have that recorded confession?” Peter asks then as the thought comes to him.

Jameson reddens. And it’s perhaps the first time he’s ever seen the (former) big boss shamefaced or genuine with regret. He doesn’t answer, but Peter gets the picture.

MJ clicks her tongue, the unspoken ‘tut-tut’ in the air and it clearly rankles Jameson as he grunts. “Not that I have to explain myself to two mediocre staff-writers of a mere monthly publication –”

“– your publication,” Peter says.

“Not anymore,” MJ helpfully interjects in reminder.

“– but,” Jameson continues not rising to the bait, “it would have found it’s way to the appropriate authorities eventually. In any case, it all worked out for the best . . .”

MJ scoffs at the idiocy of his statement but says nothing else.

It’s clear from what he’s not saying Jameson had been planning to use Harry’s confession to his own benefit at some point in the unspecified future, but Harry turning out to be the Green Goblin, and very much more than a simple psychotic murderer capable of patricide, had scuppered his plans.

Peter thinks, it’s better not to get stuck on the what-ifs.

In the end, they’d got the bastard. Together. And that’s what counts.

“So,” MJ asks, “are you coming back to the company?”

Jameson blows out a puff of smoke and Peter suppresses the urge to cough. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve decided to take a backseat role. It’s still my name on the company, so any sub-par work, I can still get you cut. Remember that. Now off you go.” He waves his hand as if swatting them away like bothersome flies.

Again, like nothing’s changed, but everything has.

As he and MJ walk out of the conference room, Peter can’t help the burst of laughter that leaves his lips.

MJ shakes her head as she looks down at him. “What?”

“I can’t believe he actually thanked us.”

“If you could call whatever that was a ‘thank you’, sure.”

“He did utter the words.”

“While looking like someone had a gun to his head, yeah.”

Peter chuckles again, still not quite believing what had just happened, and he’s too caught up in his thoughts to realise that MJ’s gone quiet beside him, struggling with her own.

Not until she’s tugging on his shirt, right before they re-enter the office.

“Hey,” she starts to say, “about last night . . .”

Peter frowns, brow furrowing in confusion at the abrupt, unexpected change in topic and mood. Because there’s definitely a different sort of tension in the air that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“What about last night?” he asks cautiously.

“You uh said something, that I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you about?”

And it’s the way she says it, shy and anxious, and suddenly _he knows._

_Know exactly what this is about._

Because he hasn’t forgotten.

Although he had thought it maybe a figment of his imagination – a blink and miss it kinda moment – especially when the whole night, morning and now day has passed, and she hasn’t spoken about it once.

Until now, that is.

And he’d hoped she’d missed it, because really, he hadn’t wanted the words ‘I love you’ or any variations to that effect, to be hidden away in the middle of a sentence about Harry freakin’ Osborn and his much-deserved life of imprisonment.

He’d wanted it to be more momentous.

Not like this.

And so, like an idiot, he lies.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And MJ knows he’s lying out of his ass if the flicker of disappointment that crosses her face is anything to go by.

But it’s done now, and he can do nothing to fix it as MJ steps back into the busy hum of the office with a quiet "never mind", and doesn’t turn back.

 

)(

 

It’s stupid.

She really shouldn’t be so hung up on three little words.

She’s not some needy lead in a romantic comedy that needs it fucking spelt out for her. She knows how Peter feels about her – he says it in so many other ways.

In the way he smiles at her, brings her a cup of coffee every morning, the way he kissed her this morning, the way he’s saved her too many times to count now and nearly died in the process, and yet . . .

And yet, maybe she _is_ that needy lead, and what the hell is so wrong with that?

It would be nice to hear the words from someone who means it for a change. To hear it from him and not just as an accidental slip of the tongue.

She doesn’t even know _why_ she’d chosen that random as hell moment to bring it up.

It’s just that it had hit her then – walking out of that crazy meeting with Jameson – that it’s always been Peter.

Right from the very beginning.

And she loves the idiot more than she knows what to do with.

She sighs, and pushes the thought aside, and instead stares down at the notes from yesterday’s meeting. It would definitely be a better use of her time to get started on her article for next month’s issue rather than replaying Peter’s admission last night over and over in her head.

It’s become distorted white noise now and lost all meaning.

With a sigh, she leans forward in her chair and tries to read her own illegible scribble, half covered by her doodling.

 _Superheroes and why this world needs them_ is what she thinks it says.

She looks up at the blank white screen, fingers poised over her keyboard, and . . . _nothing._

Nothing comes to mind.

She groans, pushing back in her seat.

And that’s when she feels it.

The light thwack of a small post-it flying into the side of her face.

She turns in the direction of where it came from, and it’s pretty damn obvious who threw it. Because Ned is definitely too far gone in the concentration zone to be resorting to paper missiles, leaving only Peter Parker. And even if she couldn't rely on the process of elimination, his attempt at fake typing is terrible and that faint blush on his cheeks is a dead give-away.

Intrigued, MJ swipes the post-it from where it’s fallen on the floor and unfolds it.

And her breath catches in her chest as she does.

Because there, in his distinctive mess of a scrawl, are three words.

And it makes sense that this would be the way it happens.

She huffs out a laugh, biting down on her smile as she picks up her pen and adds just the one word to the end of his sentence.

She then scrunches it up and throws it right back at him, watching as it lands in his waiting, outstretched hand.

 _Show off_ , she mouths.

But Peter just grins back at her as he unfolds the piece of paper, and MJ watches as that same grin softens into a smile that thunders against her heart.

Because.

_I love you too._

He turns his head back in her direction then, and it’s all there in his eyes. But just in case she didn’t get it the first (or second) time around, the dork spells it out for her with his hands curled in the shape of a heart.

And there’s really only one way to respond to _that travesty._

With two middle fingers raised and not even a flicker of a smile.

Peter laughs then – a sudden burst of sunshine that has Ned looking up, glancing between the two of them and rolling his eyes.

And MJ?

Well MJ is caught by a sudden flash of inspiration as she turns back to her notebook and sees it. There, amongst the senseless Monday meeting doodling, and half-finished sentences, is the image of one Spider-Man spinning his webs and flying through New York City, and just as easy as that, she knows _exactly_ what she’s going to write about.

And so, with a crack of her knuckles, and a lingering smile, MJ does what she does best.

_And starts to type._

 

 

**End.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where to even start?! First of all, I can’t believe this is now finished. This is the longest fic I’ve ever written, and it’s turned out very differently from what I first imagined. When the idea for this fic came to me, it had read far more like a rom com in my head, but as I started to write, it just took on a life of its own and this is the end result. The last time I wrote something over 50K+ words was more than 10 years ago, and that took me 2 years to finish. The fact that I even managed to get this done, brings me to the most important thing I have to say. And that is: THANK YOU. Honestly, the support I’ve got writing this has been so wonderful and you have no idea how much it helped in keeping me motivated. So, to everyone who left kudos, comments here or on my tumblr, and those wonderful people who drew me fanart (which I’d never previously got before and made me squeal with joy) thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> I hope this last chapter lives up to expectations. 
> 
> Until next time . . . 
> 
> xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos, as always, are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading :-)


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